c. DUO 

.5 
61st 
Copy 2 

FT MEADE 
GenCo11 





: &a£s*k~v. 



. 

i ii 


STILLWELL 








































. 





•- 

. 







4 X 





Class 









Copyright N° 




. 








. 
















_ 

■ 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 


: * : - ^ 






















/ 




T> 





rs 




/■ 




/ 


\ , 














i" ►- ® j ^ 


s 



1 •' 







J+ 




; 


✓ - 



* 








✓ 




* 








• j 



























i - 


✓ 














> 









% 










f 


Y 


/ 




• - . • -**. * * 





t 


\ 







I 

•v 


iN 











f 


COPYRIGHTED, 1917,. 

By 

LEANDER STILLWELL. 




/ 



©If 


Lni!® non ftlla® 



LEA MPEM STILLWELL 

LATE OF 

CO. D, 61st ILLINOIS INFANTRY. 



f 



PRESS OF 

THE ERIE RECORD, ERIE, KANSAS. 
1917. 


CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 


E~ 3 o : 

6)xJr 

A / 

/yj 

Index. 


PAGES. 

1: The Beginning of the War; Life at Camp Carrollton; 

January and February, 1862_11-17 

2: Benton Barracks, St. Louis; March, 1862_18-21 

3: Off for the Seat of War; The Battle of Shiloh; March 

and April, 1862_22-33 

4: Some Incidents of the Battle of Shiloh_34-41 

5: The Siege of Corinth; In Camp at Owl Creek; April 

• and May, 1862_;_42-46 

6: Bethel; Jackson; June and July, 1862_47-52 

7: Bolivar, July, August and September, 1862_:_53-56 

8: Bolivar; The Movement to the Vicinity of Iuka, Mis¬ 
sissippi, September-December, 1862_57-64 

9: The Affair at Salem Cemetery; Jackson, Carroll Sta¬ 
tion; December, 1862; January, 1863; Bolivar, Feb- 

ruary-May, 1863 _ 65-74 

10:The Siege of Vicksburg; June and July, 1863_ 75-83. 

11: Helena, Arkansas, Life in a Hospital, August, 1863_84-88 

12: Devall’s Bluff; Little Rock; August-October, 1863_89-92 

13: Little Rock, October, 1863; Granted a Furlough; 

Chaplain B. B. Hamilton; The Journey on Furlough 
From Little Rock to Jersey County, Illinois; Return 

to the RegimentT October, 1863_93-101 

14: Little Rock; Winter of 1863-64; Re-enlist for Three 

Years More _102-106 

15: Little Rock; Expeditions to Augusta and Springfield, 

Arkansas; March, April, May, 1864_107-113 

16: Devall’s Bluff; The Clarendon Expedition; June and 

July, 1864 _114-116 

17: Devall’s Bluff; Grand Reviews and Inspections; Sur¬ 
geon J. P. Anthony; Private Press Allender; June 

and July, 1864_117-120 

18: The Regiment Goes Home on Veteran Furlough; In¬ 
terview With Gen. W. T. Sherman After the War; 

A Short Tour of N Soldiering at Chester, Illinois; Au¬ 
gust, September and October, 1864_._121-125 

19: Expedition to North Missouri; Back in Tennessee 
Once More; Murfreesboro; October and November, 

1864._126-129 

20: The Affair at Overall’s Creek; Murfreesboro; De¬ 
cember, 1864._-_130-132 

21: The Battle of Wilkinson’s Pike; December 7, 1864_133-137 

22: The Fight on the Railroad Near Murfreesboro, De¬ 
cember 15, 1864. _138-142 

23: Murfreesboro; Winter of 1864-1865; Franklin; Spring 

and Summer of 1865_ _143-148 

24: The Soldier’s Pay; Rations; Allusions to Some of 
the Useful Lessons Learned by Service in the Army 

in Time of War; ( Gpurage in Battle_147-151 

25: Franklin, Summer o^3;865; Mustered Out, September 

8, 1865; Receive Final Payment at Springfield, Illi¬ 
nois, September 27, 1865; The Regiment “Breaks 
Ranks” Forever.__/_'_152-154 


OCT 29 1917 

© 01A 4 7 7 4 5 9 































Dedicated To My Youngest Son, Jeremiah E. Stillwell. 

Dear Jerry: 

You have earnestly asked me to write something in the nature of an ex¬ 
tended account of my career as a soldier in the Union army during the Civil 
War. It will be a rather strenuous undertaking for a man of my age. I shall 
be seventy-three years old in about three months, and, the truth is, I am 
now becoming somewhat indolent, and averse to labor of any kind, either 
mental or physical. But I have concluded to comply with your request, and 
i undertake the work. Whether I shall complete it, or not, I cannot now pos¬ 
itively say, but I will do the best I can. And I will also say, for whatever 
jou may think it worth, that YOU are the only person, now living, whose 
request could induce me to undertake the sketch that you desire. 

L. STILLWELL. 


Erie, Kansas. 
July 3, 1916. 


Preface. 

When I began writing these reminiscences it did not occur to me that 
anything in the nature of a preface was necessary. It was thought that the 
dedication to my son Jerry contained sufficient explanation. But I have now 
finished writing these recollections, and in view of all that they set forth, l 
believe that a few brief prefatory remarks may now be appropriate. In the 
first place it will be said that when I began the work it was only to gratify 
my son, and without any thought or expectation that it would ever be pub¬ 
lished. I don’t know yet that such will be done, but it may happen. The 
thought occurred to me after I had written some part of it, and it is pos¬ 
sible that about at that point some change began to take place in the style, 
and phraseology, and which perhaps may be observed. So much for that. 
Next I will say that all statements of fact herein made, based upon my own 
knowledge, can be relied on as absolutely true. My mother most carefully 
preserved the letters I wrote home from the army to her and to my father. 
She died on February 6, 1894, and thereafter my father (who survived her 
only about three years) gave back to me these old letters. In writing to 
my parents I wrote, as a rule, a letter every week when the opportunity was 
afforded, and now,- in this undertaking, with these letters before me, it 
was easy to follow the regiment every mile of its way from Camp Carrollton 
in January, 1862, to Camp Butler, in September, 1865. Furthermore, on June 
1, 1863, at Memphis, Tennessee, as we passed through there on our way to 
join Grant’s army at Vicksburg, I bought a little blank book about four inches 
long, three inches wide, and half an inch thick. From that time until we 
were mustered out, I kept a sort of very brief diary in this little book, and 
have it yet. The old letters and this book have been invaluable to me in wri¬ 
ting my recollections, and being composed at the time of the happening of the 
events they mention, can be relied on as accurate and truthful. 

Though I attained the rank of a commissioned officer while in the service, 
yet that did not occur until near the end of my time, and after the war was 
over. So it is submitted that the title given these sketches: “The Story of 
a Common Soldier,” is warranted by the facts. 

If this manuscript should ever be published, it will go to the world with¬ 
out any apology or commendation from me whatever. It is, though, only 
fair to say that I make no pretentions to being a “literary” man. This is 
simply the story of a common soldier who served in the army during the 
great war, and who faithfully tried to do his duty. 

L. STILLWELL. 

December 30, 1916. 







LEANDER STILLWELL, 
Co. D, 61st Illinois Infantry, 
December, 1863. 






















CHAPTER I. 

THE BEGINNING OP THE WAR.—LIFE AT CAMP CARROLLTON, 
JANUARY AND FEBRUARY, 1862. 

J[ WAS BORN September 16, 1843, in Otter Creek precinct, Jersey County, 
“ Illinois. I was living with my parents, in the little old log house where I 
was bgrn, when the Civil war began. The Confederates fired on Fort Sumter 
on April 12, 1861, and thus commenced the war. On April 15, 1861, Presi¬ 
dent Lincoln issued a call for 75,000 men, to aid in putting down the exist¬ 
ing rebellion. Illinois promptly furnished her quota, and in addition, thou¬ 
sands of men were turned away, for the reason that the complement of the 
State was complete, and there was no room for them. The soldiers under 
this call were mustered in for three months’ service only, for the govern¬ 
ment then seemed to be of the opinion that the troubles would be over by the 
end of that time. But on May 3, 1861, Mr. Lincoln issued another call for 
volunteers, the number specified being a little over 42,000, and their term of 
service was fixed ax three years, unless sooner discharged. The same call 
provided for a substantial increase in the regular army and navy. I did not 
enlist under either of these' calls. As above stated, the belief then was al¬ 
most universal throughout the North that the “war” would amount to 
nothing much but a summer frolic, and would be over by the 4th of July. 
We had the Utmost confidence that Richmond would be taken by that time, 
and that Jeff Davis and his cabinet would be prisoners, or fugitives. But the 
battle of Bull Run, fought on July 21, 1861, gave the loyal people of the Na¬ 
tion a terrible awakening. The result of this battle was a crushing disap¬ 
pointment and a bitter mortification to all the friends of the Union. They 
realized then that a long and bloody struggle was before them. But Bull 
Run was probably all for the best. Had it been a Union victory, and the 
Rebellion then been crushed, negro slavery would have been retained, and 
it would have been fought out likely in your time, with doubtless tenfold 
the loss of life and limb that ensued in the war of the sixties. 

The day after the battle of Bull Run Congress passed a law authorizing 
Mr. Lincoln to call for five hundred thousand three years’ volunteers. It 
was under this law, supplemented by authority from the Secretary of War, 
that the regiment was organized in which I subsequently enlisted. I was 
then only a boy, but somehow I felt that the war was going to be a long one, 
and that it was the duty of every young fellow of the requisite physical abil¬ 
ity to “go for a soldier,” and help save the Nation. I had some talk with my 
father on the subject. He was a strong Union man, and in sympathy with 
my feelings, but I could see that naturally he dreaded the idea of his boy 
going to the war, with the result that maybe he would be killed, or come 
home a cripple for life. But I gave him to understand tljat when they be¬ 
gan organizing a regiment in our vicinity, and which would contain a fair 
proportion of my neighbor boys and acquaintances, I intended then to vol¬ 
unteer. It was simply intolerable to think that I could stay at home, among 
the girls, and be pointed at by the soldier boys as a stay-at-home coward. 

The work of organizing and recruiting for a regiment in our corner of 
the State began early in the autumn of 1861. The various counties in that 
immediate locality were overwhelmingly Democratic in politics, and man:' 
of the people were strong “Southern sympathizers,” as they were then call- 
•od, and w’ho later developed into virulent Copperheads and Knights of the 

11 


12 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


Golden Circle. Probably 90 per cent of the inhabitants of Greene, Jersey, 
Scott, Morgan, and adjoining counties came from the Southern States, or 
were the direct descendants of people from that part of the country. Ken¬ 
tuckians, Tennesseeans, and North and South Carolinians were especially 
numerous. But it is only fair, and the truth to say, that many of the most 
prominent and dangerous of this Copperhead element were men from re¬ 
mote Eastern States. What caused these persons to pursue this shameful 
course I do not know. President Lincoln was personally well aware of these 
political conditions in our locality, as his old home, at Springfield, the State. 
Capital, was not far away, and he doubtless knew every man of reasonable 
prominence in our entire Congressional District. He wanted soldiers, regard¬ 
less of politics, but it was necessary, in that locality, to hold out some spe¬ 
cial inducements to his constituents of the Democratic faith. So, for that 
reason, (with others,) as was well understood at the time, Gen. Jacob Fry of 
Greene County, a Kentuckian by birth and a life-long Democrat, was selected 
as the one to recruit and organize, and to be the colonel of, the regiment to 
be raised from the counties above named, and their vicinity. Aside from 
the political consideration, this selection of Gen. Fry was regarded at the 
time as a very good and appropriate one. He was an old-timer, having been 
a resident of Greene county from his boyhood, had been sheriff of the coun¬ 
ty, and had held other responsible offices. And, what was considered still 
more important, he had served with credit and distinction in the “Black 
Hawk War” in 1831-2, where he held the rank of Colonel. Soon after the 
close of this Indian disturbance, he was made Brigadier-General, and subse¬ 
quently Major-General, of the Illinois militia. He was a grand old man, of 
temperate habits, strict integrity, and unflinching bravery. But he was sixty- 
two years old, and that proved to be a handicap that eventually resulted in 
his resignation, as will appear later. 

The Fair Grounds, about half a mile east of Carrollton, the county seat 
of Greene county, were designated as the “Camp of Instruction” for Col. 
Fry’s regiment. Recruiting for it began about the last of September, but 
it proceeded very slowly. Several of the boys from my neighborhood had 
previously enlisted in other regiments, and it looked as if the “wiry edge” 
of volunteering had somewhat worn off. Co. F of the 14th Illinois infantry 
had been raised almost entirely in Jersey county, and several of my old 
school mates were in that company. And there were little squads that had 
joined other regiments. The 22nd and the 27th Illinois Infantry and the 9th 
Missouri Infantry, (afterwards designated as the 59th Illinois Infantry,) each 
had some men and boys from our part of the county. 

Up in the northwest corner of Jersey County and close to the Greene 
county line, lived an old farmer of the name of John H. Reddish. He, too, 
had served in the Black Hawk War, and under the command of Col. Fry. 
The highest position he attained in that scrap, as shown by the records, was 
that of corporal, but, regardless of his rank, it is entirely safe to say that lie 
was a fighter. As soon as it was announced that Col. Fry was raising a reg 
iment, and was to be its colonel, Uncle John Reddish forthwith took the field 
to recruit a company for this organization. The fact that he had been a 
Black Hawk war soldier gave him immense prestige, and settled in his favor 
the question of his military qualifications without further evidence. The 
truth is that at that time almost any man of good repute and fair intelligence, 
who had seen service in this Black Hawk racket, or the Mexican war, was 
regarded as fit and desirable for a commissioned officer, or, at the least, 
pretty high up in the non-commissioned line. But, as it afterwards turned 
out, that was an erroneous notion. There were exceptions, of course, but, in 
any event, as regards the “Black Hawk” episode, service during; it was of 
no practical benefit whatever to a man who became thereby an officer in the 
Civil war. Capt. Reddish was kind hearted, and as brave an old fellow 
as a reckless and ^discriminating bull dog, but, aside from his personal 
courage, he had no military qualities whatever, and failed to acquire any 
during his entire service. He never could learn the drill, except the most 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


13 


simple company movements. He was also very illiterate, and could barely 
write his name. And his commands on drill were generally laughable. For 
instance, in giving the command of right or left wheel, he would supple¬ 
ment it by saying, “Swing around, boys, just like a gate.” Such directions 
would mortify us exceedingly, and caused the men of the other companies 
to laugh at, and twit us about our Captain. He would have made a first- 
class duty sergeant, and that was as high a rank as he was capable of pro¬ 
perly filling. But he was a good old man, and furiously patriotic. He loved 
a fighter and abominated.a coward, and, on the whole, his men couldn’t help 
but like him. Capt. Reddish selected for his first, or orderly sergeant, as 
the position was generally designated, Enoch W. Wallace, of my neighbor¬ 
hood. Enoch, as we usually called him, was an old acquaintance and intimate 
friend of my parents, and I too had known him from the time I was quite 
a little boy. Take him all in all, he was just one of the best men I ever 
knew. He had seen service as a Mexican war soldier, but owing to his 
youth, being only aoout sixteen when that war began, I think he did not get 
in till towards the last, and hence his service was short. But he learned 
something about company drill. When I heard that Wallace was to be the 
first sergeant of Capt. Reddish’s company, I made up my mind, right then, 
that I would enlist in that company, and told my father I was going to do 
so. He listened in silence, with his eyes fixed on the ground. Finally he 
said, “Well, Leander, if you think it’s your duty to go, I shall make no ob¬ 
jection. But you’re the only boy I now have at home big enough to work, 
so I wish you’d put it off until we get the wheat sowed, and the corn gath¬ 
ered. Then, if you’re still of the same mind, it’ll be all right.” I felt satis¬ 
fied that the regiment would not leave for the front until after we had done 
that work, so I at once consented to my father’s request. 

An incident happened about this time that greatly stimulated my de¬ 
sire to get into the army. Harvey Edsall, a neighbor boy some four or five 
years my senior, had enlisted that summer in the 22nd Illinois Infantry. 
Harvey, with his regiment, was in the battle of Belmont on November 7, 
1861, and in the action received a rather severe gun shot wound in the calf 
of one of his legs. As soon as he was able to stand the travel, he was sent home 
on furlough, and I met him soon after his arrival at his father’s house, where 
the people had gathered to listen to “the preaching of the word” by Elder 
Harrison Rowden. (We had no regular church building in our immediate 
neighborhood then, and religious services were held at private houses.) 
Harvey was rapidly recovering, but his wounded leg was still swathed in 
bandages, and he walked on crutches. I well remember how we boys stood 
around and looked at him with wide-eyed admiration. And he had to tell us 
the story of the fight, and all about the circumstances connected with the 
shot he got in his leg, until he probably was sick and tired of the subject. 
But, for my part, I thought Harvey’s story was just grand, and it somehow 
impressed me with the idea that the only life worth living was that of a 
soldier in time of war. The idea of staying at home and turning over sense¬ 
less clods on the farm with the cannon thundering so close at hand that, 
the old men said that when the wind was from the south they sometimes 
smelled the powder!—was simply intolerable. 

Remember all the time, as you read these recollections of an old man, 
that I am trying to give you merely some conception of the thoughts, feel¬ 
ings, hopes, and ambitions of one who, at the time of which I am now speak¬ 
ing, was only an eighteen year old boy. 

In the meantime, I went on helping my father do the fall work on the 
farm. In due time the wheat was sowed, the corn gathered, and a huge 
stack of firewood for winter cut and brought in, and piled near the dwelling- 
house. By this time the holiday season was approaching, which I wanted 
to spend at home, thinking, maybe, it might be the last. And the regiment 
was doing nothing but recruit, and drill at Camp Carrollton, and, as I looked 
at it, there was no special need to hurry. But Christmas and New Year’s 
day soon came, and went, and one evening I told my parents I intended to 


14 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


go to Carrollton the next day, and “maybe” would come back a soldier. 
Early next morning, which was Monday, January 6, 1862, I saddled and 
bridled Bill, the little black mule, and struck out. Carrollton was about 
twenty miles from our home, almost due north, and the 'road ran mainly 
through big woods, with an occasional farm on either side of the road. It 
is likely those woods are all gone now. I reached the camp about the mid¬ 
dle of the afternoon, went to the quarters of Reddish’s company, found 
Enoch Wallace, and told him I had come to enlist. He took me to Capt. Red¬ 
dish, gave me a short introduction to him, and told him my business. The 
old Captain gave me a hearty greeting, and was so plain, kind and natural in 
his manner and talk, that I took a liking to him at once. He told me that 
the first step necessary was to be examined by the regimental surgeon as to 
my physical fitness, so we at once went to the surgeon’s tent. I had pre¬ 
viously heard all sorts of stories as to the thoroughness of this examination, 
that sometimes the prospective recruits had to strip, stark naked, and jump 
about, in order to show that their limbs were perfect. But I was agreeablv 
disappointed in that regard. The surgeon, at that time, was a fat, jolly old 
doctor of the name of Leonidas Clemmons. I was about scared to death when 
the Captain presented me to him, and requested him to examine me. I 
reckon the good old doctor saw I was frightened, and he began laughing 
heartily and saying some kind things about my general appearance. He re¬ 
quested me to stand up straight, then gave me two or three little sort of 
“love taps” on the chest, turned me round, ran his hands over my shoulders, 
back, and limbs, laughing and talking all the time, then whirled me to 
the front, and rendered judgment on me as follows: “Ah, Capt. Reddish! 

I only wish you had a hundred such fine boys as this one! He’s all right, 
and good for the service.” I drew a long breath, and felt much 
relieved. Then we went to the adjutant’s tent, there I signed something, 
and was duly sworn in. Then to the quartermaster’s tent, where I drew my 
clothing. I got behind a big bale of stuff, took off my citizen’s apparel and 
put on my soldier clothes then and there,—and didn’t I feel proud! The 
clothing outfit consisted of a pair of light-blue pantaloons, similar colored ov¬ 
ercoat with a cape to it, dark blue jacket, heavy shoes and woolen socks, 
an ugly, abominable cocky little cap patterned after the then French army 
style, gray woolen shirt, and the ordinary under-clothing. Was also given a 
knapsack, but I think I didn’t get a haversack and canteen until later. Right 
here I will say that the regimental records give the date of my enlistment 
as the 7t.h of January, which is wrong. The date was the 6th. It was a 
day I never forgot, and never shall. How the authorities happened to get the 
date wrong I do not know, but it is a matter of only one day, and never was 
of any importance. 

It was the custom then in the regiment to give each recruit when he 
enlisted a two days’ furlough, but I deferred asking for mine until the next 
morning. I spent that afternoon in the camp, and the night at the quar¬ 
ters of my company. As already stated, the camp was on the countv Fair 
Grounds. They contained forty acres, and were thickly studded with big 
native trees, mainly white- and black-oak, and shag-bark hickory. The 
grounds were surrounded by an inclosure seven or eight feet high, consist¬ 
ing of thick, native timber planks with the lower ends driven in the ground, 
and the upper parts firmly nailed to cross-wise stringers. There was only 
one opening, which wa^ at the main gate about the center of the north side 
of the grounds. A line of guards was maintained at the gate and all round 
the inside of the inclosure, with the beat close to the fence, for the purpose 
of keeping the men in camp. No enlisted man could go out except on a pass 
signed by his captain, and approved by the colonel. The drilling of the men 
was conducted principally inside the grounds, but on skirmish drill we went 
outside, in order to have room enough. The quarters, or barracks of the men 
were, for each company, a rather long, low structure, crudely built of native 
lumber and covered with clapboards and a top dressing of straw, containing 
two rows of bunks, one above and one below. These shacks looked like o 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


15 


Kansas stable of early days,—but they were abodes of comfort and luxury 
compared to what we frequently had later. 

Next morning, after an early breakfast, I pulled out for home, with my 
two days’ furlough in my pocket. I was accompanied by John Jobson, one 
of Reddish’s company, and who had enlisted about a month previous. He 
had obtained a short furlough for some purpose or other, and had hired a 
horse on which to make the trip. Prior to his enlistment he had been work¬ 
ing as a farm hand for Sam Dougherty, one of our nearest neighbors, and 1 
had become well acquainted with him. He was about twenty-five years old, 
of English birth, a fine, sensible young fellow, and made a good soldier. I 
well remember our high spirits on this journey home. We were young, 
glowing with health and overflowing with liveliness and animation. There 
was a heavy snow on the ground, but the sky was clear, and the air was 
keen and bracing. Occasionally, when we would strike a stretch of level 
road, we would loose all the buttons of our overcoats save the top one, put 
the gad to our steeds, and waving our caps, with our long coat tails stream¬ 
ing in the wind, would yell like Comanches, and “let on” that we were mak¬ 
ing a cavalry charge. I have no doubt that we believed we presented a most 
terror-striking appearance. 

Happy is man that to him the future is a sealed book. In the summer 
of 1863, while we were stationed near Vicksburg, Jobson was taken serious¬ 
ly ill, and was put on a transport to be taken to a general hospital at Mound 
City. Illinois. He died en route, on the boat, and was hastily buried in a 
sand bar at the mouth of White River. The changing currents of the 
mighty Mississippi have long since swallowed up that sand bar, and with it 
all that may have been left of the mortal remains of poor Jobson. 

I reached home sometime in the afternoon, relieved Bill of his equip¬ 
ments, put him in the stable, and fed him. No one was stirring about out¬ 
side, and I.walked into the house unannounced. My mother was seated in 
an old rocking-chair, engaged in sewing. She looked up, saw me in the uni¬ 
form of a soldier, and she knew what that meant. Her work dropped in her 
lap, she covered her face with her hands, and the tears gushed through 
her fingers and she trembled in her chair with the intensity of her emotions. 
There was no sobbing, or other vocal manifestation of feeling, but her sil- 
once made her grief seem all the more impressive. I was distressed, and 
didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing, and walked out into the kitchen, 
thence back to the barn. There I met father, who had come in from some 
out-door work. He looked at me gravely, but with an impassive counte¬ 
nance, and merely remarked, “Well. I reckon you’ve done right.” 

Next morning everybody seemed more cheerful, and I had much to say 
at breakfast about things at Camp Carrollton. 

On the expiration of my furlough I promptly reported at the camp and 
entered on my duties as a soldier. The absorbing duty was the drill, and that 
was persistent, and consumed the most of the time. I knew nothing about it 
when I enlisted, and had never seen any except on the previous Monday af¬ 
ternoon. The system we then had was Hardee’s Infantry Tactics. It was 
simple, and easily learned. The main things required were promptness, 
care, and close attention. All dav long, somewhere in the camp, could be 
heard the voice of some officer, calling, “Left! left! left, right, left!” to his 
sauad or company, to guide them in the cadence of the step. We were drill¬ 
ed at Carrollton in the “school of the soldier,” “school of the companv.” 
and skirmish drill, with dress parade at sunset. We had no muskets, and did 
not receive them until we went to Benton Barracks, at St. Louis. I do not 
remember of our having any battallion drill at Camp Carrollton. The big 
trees in the fair grounds were probably too thick and numerous to permit 
that. Our fare consisted of light bread, coffee, fresh meat at some meals 
and salt meat at others, vankee beans, rice, onions, and Irish and sweet 
potatoes, with stewed dried apples occasionally for supper. The salt meat, 
ps a rule, was pickled pork and fat side meat, which latter ‘table comfort” 
the boys called “sow-belly.” We got well acquainted with that before the 


16 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER, 


war was over. On the grub question I will say now that the great “stand¬ 
bys” of the Union soldiers during the war, at least those of the western 
armies, were coffee, sow-belly, yankee beans, and hard-tack. It took us, of 
course, some time to learn how to cook things properly, especially the beans, 
but after we had learnt how, we never went back on the above named old 
friends. But the death of many a poor boy, especially during our first two 
or three months in the field, is chargeable to the bad cooking of his food. 

At Carrollton the jolliest time of the day was from the close of dress 
parade until taps sounded “Lights out.” There was then a good deal of 
what you might call “prairie-dogging,”—that is, the boys would run around 
and visit at the quarters of other companies. And, O, how they would 
sing! All sorts of patriotic songs were in vogue then, and what was lacking 
in tone we made up in sound. The battle of Mill Springs, in Kentucky, was 
fought on January 19, 1862, resulting-in a Union victory. A Confederate 
General, Felix K. Zollicoffer, was killed in the action. He had been a mem¬ 
ber of Congress from Tennessee, and was a man of prominence in the South. 
A song soon appeared in commemoration of this battle. It was called “The 
Happy Land of Canaan,” and I now remember only one stanza, which is as 
follows: 

“Old Zolly’s gone, 

And Secesh will have to mourn, 

For they thought he would do to depend on; 

But he made his last stand 
On the rolling Cumberland, 

And was sent to the happy land of Canaan.” 

There was a ringing, rolling chorus to each verse, of course, and which 
was not at all germane to the text, and, moreover, as the newspapers some¬ 
times say, is “not adapted for publication,”—so it will be omitted. Well, I 
can now shut my eyes and lean back in my chair and let my memory re¬ 
vert to that far away time, arid it just seems to me that I can see and hear 
Nelse Hegans singing that song at night in our quarters at old Camp Car¬ 
rollton. He was a big, strong six-footer, about twenty-one years of age, with 
a deep bass voice that sounded when singing like the roll of distant thund¬ 
er. .And he was an all-around good fellow.—Poor Nelse! He was mortally 
wounded by a musket ball in the neck early in the morning of the first day 
at Shiloh, and died a few days thereafter. 

The health of the boys while at Camp Carrollton was fine. There were 
a few cases of measles, but as I remember, none were fatal. Once I caught 
a bad cold, but I treated it myself with a backwoods remedy and never 
thought of going to the surgeon about it. I took some of the bark of a 
hickory tree that stood near our quarters, and made about a quart of strong 
hickory-bark tea. I drank it hot, and all at once, just before turning in for 
the night. It was green in color, and intensely bitter, but it cured the cold. 

A few weeks after my enlistment, I was appointed to the position of 
corporal. There are, or were in my time, eight corporals in an infantry 
company, each designated by a number, in numerical order. I was fifth. I 
owed this appointment to the friendship and influence of Enoch Wallace, and 
this was only one of the countless acts of kindness that he rendered me dur¬ 
ing my term of service. I just cannot tell you how proud I was over this mod¬ 
est military office* I am telling you the truth when I say that I felt more 
pride and pleasure in being a “Corporal of Co. D” than I ever did later in the 
possession of any other office, either military or civil. The hoys framed up 
a story on me, to the effect that soon after my appointment I was seen in the 
rear of the company quarters, stooping over an empty barret, with my head 
projected into it as far as possible, and exclaiming in a deep, guttural tone, 
“CORPORAL STILLWELL!” “CORPORAL STILLWELL!” This was being 
done, so the boys said, in order that I might personally enjoy the sound. In 
order to be strictly accurate, I will state that, although the appointment was 


y ; 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 17 

\ 

made while we were at Carrollton, my official warrant was not issued until 
our arrival at Benton Barracks. 

The only thing recalled now that was sort of disagreeable at Camp Car¬ 
rollton was the utter absence of privacy. Even when off duty, one couldn’t 
get away by himself, and sit down in peace and quiet anywhere. And as for 
slipping off into some corner and trying to read, alone, a booK or paper, the 
thing was impossible. To use a modern expression, there was always “some¬ 
thing doing.” Many a time after supper, on very cold nighis wnen the boys 
would all be in the barracks, singing or cutting up, I would sneak out and 
walk around under the big trees, with the snow crackling under my feet, for 
no other purpose whatever than just to be alone a while. But that condition 
of things changed greatly for the better after we got down South, and were 
no longer cooped up in a forty acre lot. 

General Grant gained his great victory at Fort Donelson on February 16 , 
1862, and the news reached us a few days later. The boys talked about it 
with feelings of mingled exultation,—and mortification. Exultation, of course, 
over the “glorious victory,” but mortification in regard to its effects and con¬ 
sequences on our future military career. We all thought, from the officers 
down, that now the war would end, that we would see no actual service, and 
never fire a shot. That we would be discharged, and go home just little 
‘trundle-bed soldiers,” and have to sit around and hear other sure-enough 
warriors tell the stories of actual war and fighting. If we only had known, we 
were borrowing unnecessary trouble,—as we, found out later. 




c 




v 






> 






V 





CHAPTER II. 


BENTON BARRACKS.—ST. LOUIS, MARCH, 1862. 

S OMETIME DURING THE LAST of February, the welcome news was 
given out from regimental headquarters that we were soon’ to leave 
Camp Carrollton. Our first objective point was to be St. Louis, Mo., and 
what next nobody knew. Definite orders for the movement were issued 
later, and it then occurred to us that possibly all our recent apprehensions 
about not seeing any fighting were somewhat premature. 

Right here I will say that in the brief sketch of the regiment, published 
in the reports of the Adjutant-General of the State of Illinois, the date of 
our leaving Carrollton is given as February 21, which is wrong. That date 
is either a mistake of the person who wrote that part of the sketch, or 
a typographical error. I have in my possession, and now lying before me, 
a letter I wrote to my father from Benton Barracks, of date March 2, 1862. 
in which the date of our arrival at St. Louis is given as February 28th. And 
T well know that we were only two days on the trip. And besides the date 
given in my letter, I distinctly remember several unwritten lacts and cir¬ 
cumstances that satisfy me beyond any doubt, that the day we left Car¬ 
rollton was February 27, 1862. Early in the morning of that day, the regi¬ 
ment filed out at the big gate, and marched south on the dirt road. Good-by 
to old Camp Carrollton! Many of the boys never saw it again, and I never 
have seen it since but once, which was in the summer of 1894. I was back 
then in Jersey county, on a sort of a visit, and was taken with a desire to 
run up to Carrollton, and look at the old camp.' There was then a railroad, 
constructed during the last years of the war, (or about that time.) running 
south from the town, and less than an hour’s ride from Jerseyville, where 
I was stopping, so I got on a morning train, and like Jonah wnen moved to 
go to Tarshish, “paid the fare and went.” I found the old camp still being 
used as a, county fair ground, and the same big trees, or the most of them, 
were there yet, and looked about as they did thirty-two years before. Of 
course, every vestige of our old barracks was gone. I stood around and look¬ 
ed at things a while,—and thought,—then left, and have never been there 
again. 

The regiment arrived at Jersewille about sunset. The word had gone 
out. all through the country, that Fry’s regiment was leaving for the front, 
and the country people had come to town, from miles around, in their farm 
wagons, to have one last look, and bid us good-by. The regiment, in column 
by companies, company distance, marched up the main street running south, 
and on reaching the center of the little town, we wheeled into line, dressed on 
the colors, and stood at attention. The side walks were thronged with the 
country people all intently scanning the lines, each little family grout) anx¬ 
iously looking for their boy, brother, husband, or father, as the case may 
have been. (But right, here it will be said that the overwhelming majority 
of the enlisted men of the regiment, and the most of the line officers, were 
unmarried). I was satisfied that my parents were somewhere among the 
crowd of spectators, for I had specially written them as to when we would 
pass through Jefseyville. I was in the front rank, and keDt my face rigidlv 
fixed to the front, but glanced, as best I could, up and down the sidewalk 
trying to locate father and mother. Suddenly I saw them, as thev struggled 
to the edge of the walk, not more than ten feet from me. I had been some¬ 
what dreading the meeting, and the parting that was to come. I remembered 

18 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER, 


19 


the emotion of my mother when she first saw me in my uniform, and I 
feared that now she might break down altogether. But tnere she stood, 
her eyes fixed on me intently, with a proud and happy smile on ner face! 
You see, we were a magnificent looking body of young fellows, somewhere 
between 800 and 900 strong. Our uniforms were clean, and comparatively 
new, and our faces were ruddy and glowing with health. Besides the regi¬ 
mental colors, each company, at that time, carried a small nag, which were 
all fluttering in the breeze, and our regimental band was playing patriotic 
tunes at its best. I reckon it was a somewhat inspiring sight to country 
people like those who, with possibly very few exceptions, had never seen 
anything like that before. Anyhow, my mother was evidently content and 
glad to see me there, under the shadow of the flag, and going forth to fight 
for the old Union, instead of then being sneaking around at home, like some 
great hulking boys in our neighborhod who were of Copperhead sympathies 
and parentage. 

Arrangements had been made to quarter the regiment that night in 
different public buildings in the town, and the companies were soon marched 
to their respective places. Co. D had been assigned^ to the Baptist church, 
and there my parents and I met, and had our final interview. They were 
nine miles from home, in the old farm wagon, the roads (in the main) were 
through dense woods, and across ridges and hollows, the short winter day 
was drawing to a close and night approaching, so our farewell talk was nec¬ 
essarily brief. Our parting was simple and unaffected, without any display of 
emotion by anybody. But mother’s eyes looked unusually bnglit, and she 
didn’t linger when she said, “Good-by, Leander.” As for my father,—he 
was an old North Carolinian, born and reared among the Cherokee Indians 
at the base of the Great Smoky Mountains, and with him, and all other 
men of his type, any yielding to “womanish’’ feelings was looxea'on as al¬ 
most disgraceful. His farewell words were few, and concise', and spoken 
in his ordinary tone and manner,—he then turned on his heel, and was gone. 

Mother left with me a baked chicken, the same being a b:g, fat hen full 
of stuffing rich in sage and onions; also some mince pie, old time doughnuts, 
and cucumber pickles. I shared it all with Bill Banfield, (my chum), and 
we had plenty for supper, and breakfast the next day, with the drum-sticks 
and some out-lying portions of the chicken for dinner. 

Early next morning we pulled out for Alton, on the Mississippi River. 
But we did not have to march much that day. The country people around 
and near Jerseyville turned out in force with their farm wagons, and in¬ 
sisted on hauling us to Alton, and their invitations were accepted with 
pleasure. A few miles north of Alton we passed what was in those days 
(and may be yet), a popular and celebrated school for girls, called the 
“Monticello Female Seminary.’’ The girls had heard of our coming, and were 
all out by the side of the road, a hundred or more, with red, white, and blue 
ribbons in their hair, and otherwise on their persons. They waved white 
handkerchiefs and little flags at us, and looked their sweetest. And. didn't 
we cheer them! Well, I should say so. We stood up in tne wagons, and 
swung our caps, and just whooped and hurrah’d, as long as those girls were 
in sight. We always treasured this incident as a bright, sweet link in 
the chain of memory, for it was the last public manifestation, of this na¬ 
ture, of good-will and patriotism from girls and women that was given the 
regiment until we struck the soil of the State of Indiana, on our return home 
some months after the close of the war. 

We arrived at Alton about sundown, and at once marched aboard the 
big side-wheel steamboat, “City of Alton,’’ which was lying at the wharf 
waiting for us, and guards were promptly stationed, to prevent the men leav¬ 
ing the boat. But “some one had blundered,” and no rations had been pro¬ 
vided for our supper. We were good and hungry, too, for our dinner, at 
least that of Co. D, consisted only of the left-over scraps of breakfast. But 
the officers got busy and went up town and bought, with their own money, 
something for us to eat. My company was furnished a barrel of oyster 


20 THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 

crackers, called in those days, “butter crackers,” and our drink was river 
water. 

The novelty and excitement of the last two days left me nervous and 
tired out, and to tell the truth, I was feeling my first touch of “home-sick¬ 
ness.” So, after supper I went up on the hurricane deck of the boat, spread 
my blanket on the floor, and with my knapsack for a pillow, laid down, and 
soon fell asleep. The boat did not leave Alton until after dark, and when 
it pulled out, the scream of the whistle, the dashing of the paddles, and 
the throbbing and crash of the engines, aroused me from my slumber. I 
sat up and looked around, and watched the lights of Alton as they 
twinkled and glimmered in . the darkness, until they were lost to sight 
by a bend in the river. Then I laid down and went to sleep again, and did 
not wake until daylight the next morning, and found that our boat was 
moored to the wharf at St. Louis. We soon debarked, and marched out to 
Benton Barracks, which were clear out of town, and beyond the suburbs. 
The shape of Benton Barracks, as I now remember, was a big oblong 
square. The barracks themselves consisted of a continuous connected row of 
low frame buildings, the quarters of each company being separated from 
the others by frame partitions, and provided with two rows of bunks around 
the sides and ends. At the rear of the quarters of each company was the 
company kitchen. It was a detached, separate frame structure, and amply 
provided with accommodations for cooking, including a brick furnace with 
openings for camp kettles, pots, boilers, and the like. Both barracks and 
kitchen were comfortable and convenient and greatly superior to our home¬ 
made shacks at Carrollton. The barracks inclosed a good sized tract of 
land, but its extent I do not now remember. This space was used for drill¬ 
ing and parades, and was almost entirely destitute of trees. The commander 
of the post, at that time, was Colonel Benjamin L. E. Bonneville, an old 
regular army officer, and who had been a noted western explorer in his 
younger days. I frequently saw him riding about the grounds. He was a 
little, dried-up old Frenchman, and had no military look aoout him what¬ 
ever. All the same, he was a man who had, ,as a soldier, done long and 
faithful service for his adopted country. Should you ever want to post up 
on him, (if you have not already done so,) read “Adventures of Captain 
Bonneville, U. S. A., in the Rocky Mountains and the Far West,” by Wash¬ 
ington Irving. You will find it deeply interesting. 

We remained at Benton Barracks about four weeks. Life there-was mo¬ 
notonous and void of any special interest. We drilled but little, as I now 
remember, the reason for that being it rained the most of the time we were 
there and the drill grounds were oceans of mud. The drainage was wretched, 
and the most of the rain that fell stayed on the surface until the ground 
soaked it up. And how it did rain at Benton Barracks in Marcn, 1862! While 
there, I found in some recently vacated quarters, an old, tattered, paper- 
bound copy of Dickens’ “Bleak House,” and on those rainy days I would 
climb up in my bunk, (an upper one), and lie there and read that book. Some 
of the aristocratic characters mentioned therein had a country residence 
called “Chesney Wold,” where, it seemed, it always rained. To quote, (in 
substance), from the book, “The rain was ever falling, drip, crip, drip, by 
day and night,” at “the place in Lincolnshire.” ’Twas even so at Benton 
Barracks. When weary of reading, I would turn and look a while through 
the little window at the side of my bunk that gave a view of the most of 
the square which the barracks inclosed. The surface of the earth was just 
a quagmire of mud and water, and nothing stirring abroad could be seen 
save occasionally a mounted orderly, splashing at a gallop across the 
grounds. Since then I have frequently read “Bleak House,” and whenever 
that chapter is reached depicting the rainy weather at the Dedlock place, 
I can again see, and smell, and hear, and feel, those gloomy wearisome con¬ 
ditions at Benton Barracks of over half a century ago. I have read, some¬ 
where in Gen. Sherman’s Memoirs, a statement in substance to the effect 
that rain in camp has a depressing effect upon soldiers, but is enlivening to 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


21 


them on a march. From personal experience I know that observation to be 
true. Many a time while on a march we would be caught in heavy rains. 
The dirt road would soon be worked into a loblolly of sticky yellow mud. 
Thereupon we would take off our shoes and socks, tie them to the barrel 
of our muskets a little below the muzzle and just above the end of the 
stock, poise the piece on the hammer on either shoulder, stoci: uppermost, 
and roll up our breeches to the knees. Then like Tam O’Shanter, we “skel- 
pit on through dub and mire, despising wind, and rain, and fire/’ and singing 
“John Brown’s Body,” or whatever else came handy. But rainy days in 
camp, especially such as we had at Benton Barracks, engender feelings of 
gloom and dejection that have to be experienced in order to be realized. 
They are just too wretched for, any adequate description. 

One day while strolling around the grounds sight seeing, I fell in with 
a soldier who said he belonged to the 14th Wisconsin Infantry. He was 
some years older than me, but was quite sociable, and seemed to be a sen¬ 
sible, intelligent fellow. He' was full of talk about his regiment,—said they 
were nearly all young men, big stalwart lumbermen from the pine woods 
of Wisconsin, and urged me to come around some evening when they were 
on dress parade, and look at them. I had found out by this time that almost 
every soldier would brag about his regiment, so allowance was made for 
what he said. But he excited my curiosity to see those Wisconsin boys, so 
one evening when I was at liberty, I did go and view them while they were 
on dress parade, and found that the soldier had not exaggerated. They 
were great, tall fellows, broad across the shoulders and chest, with big 
limbs. Altogether, they simply were, from a physical standpoint, the finest 
looking soldiers I ever saw during my entire term of service. I speak now 
of this incident and of these men, for the reason that later I may say some¬ 
thing more about this 14th Wisconsin. 

While at Benton Barracks we were given our regimental number,—Sixty- 
First—and thenceforth the regiment was known and designated as the Sixty- 
First Illinois Infantry. We also drew our guns. We were furnished with 
the Austrian Rifle musket. It was of medium length, with a light brown 
walnut stock,—and was- a wicked shooter. At that time trie most of the 
western troops were armed with foreign-made muskets, imported from 
Europe. Many regiments had old Belgian muskets, a heavy, cumbersome 
piece, and awl&ird and unsatisfactory every way. We were glad to get the 
Austrians, and^were quite proud of them. We used these until June, 1863, 
when we turned them in and drew in lieu thereof the Springfield Rifle Mus¬ 
ket of the model of 1863. It was not as heavy as the Austrian, was neater 
looking, and a very efficient firearm. No further change was made, and 
we carried the Springfield thenceforward until we were mustered out. 

It was also here at Benton Barracks that the mustering of the regiment 
into the service of the United States was completed. Ten companies, at 
that time, constituted a regiment of infantry, but ours had only nine. We 
lacked Company K, and it was not recruited, and did not join the regiment 
until in March, 1864. On account of our not having a full regiment, Col. 
Fry, (as we always called him,) was commissioned as Lieutenant Colonel 
only, which was his rank all the time he was with us, and Capt. Simon P. 
Ohr of Co. A, was commissioned Major. Owing to our lack of one company, 
and the further fact that when that company did join us, the other com¬ 
panies had become much depleted in numbers, the regiment therefore 
never had an officer of the full rank of Colonel until the summer of 1865, 
when it became entitled to one under the circumstances which will be 
stated further on. 


CHAPTER III. 


OFF FOR THE SEAT OF WAR.—THE BATTLE OF SHILOH.—MARCH AND 

APRIL, 1862. 

© N MARCH 25th we left Benton Barracks for the front. We marched 
through St. Louis and onto the steamboat that day, but from some cause 
I never knew, the boat did not leave the wharf until about dark the next eve¬ 
ning. My company was quartered on the hurricane deck of the boat. Soon 
after the boat started down the river an incident befell me that looks some¬ 
what comical now, but at that time it was to me a serious matter, and one 
that troubled my conscience a good deal. I had piled my knapsack, with the 
blanket strapped on the outside, and my other stuff, at the foot of the gun 
stack which included my musket. Suddenly I discovered, to my great con¬ 
sternation, that my blanket was gone! Yes, my Lords and gentlemen, some 
“false Scot” had deliberately and feloniously appropriated my indispensable 
equipment for a night’s repose. And a long, raw March night was coming 
on, and the damp and chilly air was rising, like a fog, from the cold surface 
of the river. All signs, too, portended a rainy night. The thunder was mut¬ 
tering off in the southwest, intermittent flashes of lightning lit up the sky, 
and scattering drops of rain were even then beginning to patter on the hur¬ 
ricane deck, and ripple the bosom of the stream. What should I do? I must 
have a blanket, that was certain. But all my life the belief had been instill¬ 
ed into me that stealing was well-nigh the most disgraceful of all crimes, 
and that a thief was a most odious and contemptible wretch. Moreover, one 
of the ten commandments “pintedly“ declared, “Thou shall not steal.” But 
something had to'be done, and speedily. At last it occurred to me that be¬ 
ing a soldier, and belonging for the time being to Uncle Sam, I was a species 
of government property, which it was my duty to protect at all hazards. 
That settled the question, and conscience and honesty withdrew. Without 
going into the demoralizing details, suffice it to say that I stole a blanket 
from some hapless victim belonging to another company, and thus safeguard¬ 
ed the health and military efficiency of a chattel of the Nation. How the 
other fellow got along, I don’t know. I made no impertinent inquiries, and, 
during the day time, indefinitely thereafter, kept that blanket in my knap¬ 
sack, carefully concealed from prying eyes. But it will be recorded here 
that this was the only act of downright larceny that I committed during my 
entire term of service. Of course I helped myself many times, while on the 
march, or on picket, to roasting ears, sweet potatoes, apples, and the like, 
but that came under the head of legitimate foraging, and was sanctioned by 
the military authorities. 

The night we left St. Louis I had my first impressive object lesson show¬ 
ing the difference between the conditions of the commissioned officers and 
the enlisted men. I had spread my blanket at the base of the little structure 
called the “texas,” on which the pilot house stands. All round the bottom 
of the texas was a row of small window lights that commanded a view of 
the interior of the boat’s cabin below, and I only had to turn my head and 
look in and down, to see what was passing. The officers were seated in 
cushioned chairs, or sauntering around over the carpeted and brilliantly 
lighted room, while their supper was being prepared. Colored waiters dress¬ 
ed in white uniforms were bringing in the eatables, and when all was ready, 
a gong was sounded and the officers seated themselves at the table. And 
just look at the good things they had to eat! Fried ham, and beefsteak, hot 

22 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 23 


biscuits, butter, molasses, big boiled Irish potatoes steaming hot, fragrant 
coffee served with cream, in cups and saucers, and some minor goodies in 
the shape of preserves and the like. And how savory those good things 
smelled!—for I was where I could get the benefit of that. And there were 
the officers, in the warm, lighted cabin, seated at a table, with nigger wait¬ 
ers to serve them, feasting on that splendid fare! Why, it was the very in¬ 
carnation of bodily comfort and enjoyment! And, when the officers should 
be ready to retire for the night, warm and cozy berths awaited them, where 
they would stretch their limbs on downy quilts and mattresses, utterly ob¬ 
livious to the wet and chill on the outside. Then I turned my head and took 
in my surroundings! A black, cold night, cinders and soot drifting on us 
from the smoke stacks, and a drizzling rain pattering down. And my sup¬ 
per had consisted of hardtack and raw sow-belly, with river water for a bev¬ 
erage, of the vintage, say, of 1541. And to aggravate the situation generally, 
I was lying on a blanket which a military necessity had compelled me to 
steal. But I reflected that we couldn’t all be officers,—there had to be some¬ 
body to do the actual trigger-pulling. And I further consoled myself with 
the thought that while the officers had more privileges than the common sol¬ 
diers, they likewise had more responsibilities, and had to worry their brains 
about many things that didn’t bother us a particle. So I smothered all en¬ 
vious feelings as best I could, and wrapping myself up good in my blanket, 
went to sleep, and all night long slept the unbroken, dreamless sleep of 
youth and health. 

The weather cleared up that night, and the next day was fine, and we all 
felt in better spirits. Our surroundings were new and strange, and we were 
thrilling with excitement and bright hopes of the future. The great major¬ 
ity of us were simple country boys, who had so far passed our lives in a 
narrow circle in the backwoods. As for myself, before enlisting in the army 
I had never been more than fifty miles from home, had not traveled any on 
a steamboat, and my few short railroad trips did not amount, in the aggre¬ 
gate, to more than about seventy-five miles. But now the contracted hori¬ 
zon of the “Whippoorwill Ridges” adjacent to the old home had suddenly 
expanded, and a great big wonderful world was unfolding to my view. And 
there was the daring, heroic life on which we were entering! No individual 
bov expected that he would be killed, or meet with any other adverse fate. 
Others might, and doubtless would, but he would come out safe and sound, 
and return home at the end of a victorious war, a military hero, and as such 
would be looked up to, and admired and reverenced, all the rest, of his life. 
At any rate, such were my thoughts, and I have no doubt whatever that 
ninety-nine out of a hundred of the other boys thought the same. 

On the afternoon of this day (March 27th,) we arrived at Cairo, round¬ 
ed in at the wharf, and remained a short time. The town fronted on the 
Ohio river, which was high at the time, as also was the Mississippi. The 
appearance of Cairo was wretched. Levees had been constructed to pro¬ 
tect it from high water, but notwithstanding the streets and the grounds 
generally were just a foul, stagnant swamp. Engines were at work pump¬ 
ing the surface water into the river through pipes in the levee; otherwise 
I reckon everybody would have been drowned out. Charles Dickens saw this 
locality in the spring of 1842 when on a visit to America, and it figures in 
‘Martin Chuzzlewit,” under the name of “Eden.” I never read that book 
until after the close of the war, but have several times since, and will say 
that if the Eden of 1842 looked anything like the Cairo of twenty years later, 
his description thereof was fully warranted. 

Our boat had hardly got moored to the wharf before the word went 
round that some Confederate prisoners were on the transport on our right, 
and we forthwith rushed to that side to get our first look at the “Secesh,” 
as we then called them. It was only a small batch, about a hundred 
or so. They were under guard, and on the after part of the lower 
deck, along the sides and the stern of the boat. We ascertained that they 
were about the last installment of the Fort Donelson prisoners, and were 


24 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


being shipped to a northern military prison. Naturally, we scanned them 
with great curiosity, and the boys soon began to joke and chaff them in a per¬ 
fectly good natured way. They took this silently, with no other manifesta¬ 
tion than an occasional dry grin. But finally a rather good looking young 
fellow cocked his eyes toward us and in a soft, drawling tone called out, 
“You-all will sing a different tune by next summah.” Our boys responded 
to this with bursts of laughter and some derisive whoops; but later we 
found out that the young Confederate soldier was a true prophet. 

Our halt at Cairo was brief; the boat soon cast off and proceeded up the 
Ohio to the mouth of the Tennessee, and from thence up that river. Some 
time the next day we passed Fort Henry. We had read of its 
capture the month previous by the joint operations of our army and navy, 
and were all curious to see this Confederate stronghold, where a mere hand¬ 
ful of men had put up such a plucky fight. My ideas of forts at that time 
had all been drawn from pictures in books which depicted old-time fortresses, 
and from descriptions in Scott’s “Marmion” of ancient feudal castles like 
“Tantallon strong,” and the like. And when we approached Fort Henry I 
fully expected to see some grand imposing structure, with “battled towers,” 
“donjon keep,” “port-cullis,” “drawbridges,” and what not, and perhaps 
some officer of high rank with a drawn sword, strutting about on the ram¬ 
parts and occasionally shouting, at the top of his voice, “What, warder, 
ho!” or words to that effect. But to my utter amazement and disgust, when 
we steamed up opposite Fort Henry I saw only a little squatty, insignificant 
looking mud affair, without the slightest feature of any of the “pride, pomp, 
and circumstance of glorious war.” It had been built on the low bottom 
ground near the bank of the Tennessee river, the stream was now high, and 
the adjacent land was largely covered with water, while the inside of the 
fort looked a good deal like a hog pen. I couldn’t imagine how such a con¬ 
temptible looking thing hau stood off our gun boats as long as it did. But 
I did not know then that just such works, with earthen walls, were the 
strongest and best defenses against modern artillery that could be cons¬ 
tructed. In fact what I didn’t know about war, at that stage of the pro¬ 
ceedings, was broad and comprehensive, and covered the whole field. 

As we journeyed up the Tennessee we began to notice queer 
looking green- bunches of something on the trees. As the forest had not 
yet put forth its foliage, we knew that growth could not be leaves, and were 
puzzled to imagine what it couljd be. But we finally learnt from some of 
the boat’s crew that it was mistletoe. So far as I knew none of the pri¬ 
vate soldiers had ever before seen that curious evergreen, and it was to us 
a strange curiosity. But we got well acquainted with it later. 

We arrived at Pittsburg Landing on the evening of March 31, about sun¬ 
down. On going into camp in our position upon the line, for the first time in 
our service we dwelt in tents. We had what was called the Sibley tent, an 
affair of a conical shape, rather large, and capable of accommodating about 
twelve men, with their accouterments. As a circumstance bearing on our 
ignorance of life in tents, I will say that we neglected to ditch around them, 
and on the very first night we slept in them there came a heavy rain, and the 
next morning found us lying more or less in the water, and our blankets and 
other stuff sopping wet. But after that, on pitching our tents one of the first 
things we did was to dig around them a sufficient ditch with a lateral ex- 
tension. 

I retain a vivid recollection of the kind of army cooking we had for the 
first few months in Tennessee. At Camp Carrollton and Benton Barracks 
we had company cooks who prepared the food for the entire company. They 
were merely enlisted men, detailed for that purpose, and while their cook¬ 
ing was nothing to brag about, it was vastly superior to what now ensued. 
We divided up into messes, of four, eight, Qr twelve men, or thereabouts, to 
the mess, and generally would take turns in the culinary line. Very few of 
us knew anything whatever about cooking, and our exploits in that regard 
would have been comical if the effects had not been so pernicious. Flour 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER 


25 


was issued to us, after our arrival at Pittsburg Landing, but we had no 
utensils in which we could cook biscuits, or loaves. So we would make a 
batter out of flour, water, grease, and salt, and cook it in a mess pan, the 
product being the army “flap-jack.” It invariably was tough as a mule's ear, 
about as heavy as lead, and very indigestible. Later we learnt to construct 
ovens of wood, or stone, and in them, in the course of time, we acquired the 
knack of making good bread. Rut with us in the west the hardtack was 
generally our standard bread diet, and nothing could beat it. 

And for some time our cooking of “yankee beans,” as we called them, 
was simply atrocious. As you know, beans should be cooked until they are 
thoroughly done;, otherwise they are decidedly harmful. Well, we would 
not cook them much more than half enough, the result being a sloppy 
slimy mess, its looks alone being well-nigh sufficient to extinguish one’s ap¬ 
petite. And as for the rice—the horrible messes we would make of that 
defy description. I know that one consequence with me was I contracted 
such an aversion to rice that for many years afterwards, while in civil life, I 
just couldn’t eat it in any form, no matter how temptingly prepared. 

Owing to improperly cooked food, change of climate and of water, and 
neglect of proper sanitation measures in the camps, camp diarrhea became 
epidemic at Pittsburg Landing, especially among the “green” regiments like 
ours. And for about six weeks, everybody suffered, more or less, the differ¬ 
ence being only in degree. The fact is, the condition of the troops in that 
quarter during the prevalence of that disorder was simply so bad and re¬ 
pulsive that any detailed description thereof will be passed over. I never 
^aw the like before, and never have seen it since. 1 always thought that 
one thing which aggravated this trouble was the inordinate quantity of sugar 
some of the men would consume. They would not only use it to excess in 
their coffee and rice, but would frequently eat it raw, by^ handfuls. I happen 
to think, right now, of an incident that illustrates the unnatural appetite of 
some of the men for sugar. It occurred in camp one rainy day during the 
siege of Corinth. Jake Hill, of my company, had covered the top of a big 
army hardtack with sugar in a cone-like form, piling it on as long as the 
‘tack would hold a grain. Then he seated himself on his knapsack and pro¬ 
ceeded to gnaw away at his feast, by a system of “regular approaches.” He 
was even then suffering from the epidemic before mentioned, and so weak 
he could hardly walk. Some one said to him, “Jake, that sugar ain’t good 
for you in your condition.” He looked up with an aggrieved air and respond¬ 
ed in a tone of cruelly injured innocence, “Haven’t I the right to eat my 
r-a-a-tion?” Strange to say; Jake got well, and served throughout the war. 
He was a good soldier, too. 

For my part, I quit 'using sugar in any form, early in my army service, 
(except a little, occasionally, with stewed fruit, or berries,) and didn’t re¬ 
sume its general use until some years after my discharge from the army. 

In consequence of the conditions at Pittsburg Landing that have been 
alluded to, men died by the store like rotten sheep. And a great many more 
were discharged for disability and thereby were lost to the service. It is 
true that some of these discharged men, especially the younger ones, sub¬ 
sequently re-enlisted, and made good soldiers. But this loss to the Union 
armies in Tennessee in the spring of ’62 by disease would undoubtedly sur¬ 
pass the casualties of a great battle, but, unlike a battle, there was no re¬ 
sulting compensation whatever. 

The battle of Shiloh was fought on April 6 and 7. In 1891 I wrote an 
article on the battle which was published in the New York Tribune, and later 
it appeared in several other newspapers. It has also been reprinted in book 
form in connection with papers by other persons, some about the war, and 
others of a miscellaneous nature. The piece I wrote twenty-five years ago 
is as good, I reckon, if not better than anything on that head I can write 
now, so it will be set out here. 


26 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


IN THE RANKS AT SHILOH. 

By Leander Stillwell, 

Late First Lieutenant 61st Illinois Volunteer Infantry. 

T HERE HAS BEEN a great deal said and written about the battle of Shi¬ 
loh, both by Rebel and Union officers and writers. On the part of the first 
there has been, and probably always will be, angry dispute and criticism 
about the conduct of General Beauregard in calling off his troops Sunday eve¬ 
ning while fully an hour of broad, precious daylight still remained,, which, as 
claimed by some, might have been utilized in destroying the remainder of 
Grant’s army before Buell could have crossed the Tennessee. On the part 
of Union writers the matters most discussed have been as to whether or not 
our forces were surprised, the condition of Grant’s army at the close of the 
first day, what the result would have been without the aid of the gunboats, or if 
Buell’s army had not come, and kindred subjects. It is not my purpose, in 
telling my story of the battle of Shiloh, to say anything that will add to this 
volume of discussion. My age at the time was but eighteen, and my posi¬ 
tion that of a common soldier in the ranks. It would therefore be foolish 
in me to assume the part of a critic. The generals, who, from reasonably 
safe points of observation, are sweeping the field with their glasses, and 
noting and directing the movements of me lines of battle, must, in the na¬ 
ture of things, be the ones to furnish the facts that go to make history. The 
extent of a battle-field seen by the common soldier is that only which comes 
within the range of the raised sights of his musket. And what little he does 
see is as “through a glass, darkly.” The dense banks of powder smoke ob¬ 
struct his gaze; he catches but fitful glimpses of his adversaries as the 
smoke veers or rises. 

Then, too, my own experience makes me think that where the common 
soldier does his duty, all his faculties of mind and body are employed in at¬ 
tending to the details of his own personal part of the work of destruction, 
and there is but little time left him for taking mental notes to form the 
bases of historical articles a quarter of a century afterward. The handling, 
tearing, and charging of his cartridge, ramming it home (we used muzzle 
loaders during the Civil war), the capping of his gun, the aiming and firing, 
with furious haste and desperate energy,—for every shot may be his last,— 
these things require the soldier’s close personal attention and make him ob¬ 
livious to matters transpiring beyond his immediate neighborhood. More¬ 
over, his sense of hearing is well-nigh overcome by the deafening uproar go¬ 
ing on around him. The incessant and terrible crash of musketry, the roar 
of the cannon, the continual zip, zip of the bullets as they hiss by him, in¬ 
terspersed with the agonizing screams of the wounded, or the death-shrieks 
of comrades falling in dying convulsions right in the face of the living,— 
these things are not conducive to that serene and judicial mental equipose 
which the historian enjoys in his closet. 

Let the generals and historians, therefore, write of the movements of 
corps, divisions, and brigades. I have naught to tell but the simple story of 
what one private soldier saw of one of the bloodiest battles of the war. 

The regiment to which I belonged was the 61st Illinois Infantry. It left 
its camp of instruction (a country town in southern Illinois; about the last 
of February, 1862. We were sent to Benton Barracks, near St. Louis, and 
remained there drilling, (when the weather would permit,) until March 25th. 
We left on that day for the front. It was a cloudy, drizzly, and most gloomy 
day, as we marched through the streets of St. Louis down to the levee, to 
embark on a transport that was to take us to our destination. The city was 
enveloped in that pall of coal smoke for which St. Louis is celebrated. It 
hung heavy and low and set us all a-coughing. I think the colonel must 
have marched us down some by-street. It was narrow and dirty, with high 
buildings on either side. The line officers took the sidewalks, while the 
regiment, marching by the flank, tramped in silence down the middle of the 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


27 


street, slumping through the nasty, slimy mud. There was one thing very 
noticeable on this march through St. Louis, and that was the utter lack of 
interest taken in us by the inhabitants. From pictures I had seen in books 
at home, my idea was that when soldiers departed for war, Deautiful ladies 
stood on balconies and waved snowy-white handkerchiefs at the troops, while 
the men stood on the sidewalks and corners and swung their hats and cheered. 

There may have been regiments so favored, but ours was not one of 
them. Occasionally a fat, chunky-looking fellow, of a German cast of coun¬ 
tenance, with a big Dipe in his mouth, would stick his head out of a door 
or window, look at ns a few seconds,and then disappear. No handkerchiefs 
nor hats were waved, we heard no cheers. My thoughts at the time were 
that the Union people there had all gone to the war, or else the colonel 
was marching us through a “Secesh” part of town. 

We marched to the levee and from there on board the big sidewheel 
steamer ‘Empress.’ The next evening she unfastened her moorings, swung 
her head out into the river, turned down stream, and we were off for the 
“seat of war.” We arrived at Pittsburg Landing on March 31st. Pittsburg 
Landing, as its name indicates, was simply a landing place for steamboats. 
It is on the west bank of the Tennessee River, ip a thickly wooded region 
about twenty miles northeast of Corinth. There was no town there then, 
nothing but “the log house on the hill” that the survivors of the battle of 
Shiloh will all reipember. The banks of the Tennessee on the Pittsburg 
Landing side are steep and bluffy, rising about 100 feet above the level of 
the river. Shiloh church, that gave'the battle its name, was a Methodist 
meeting: house. It was a small, hewed log building with a clapboard roof, 
about two miles out from the landing on the main Corinth road. On our 
arrival we were assigned to the Division of General B. M. 
Prentiss, and we at once marched out and went into camp. About half a 
mile from the landing the road forks, the main Corinth road goes to the right, 
past Shiloh church, the other goes to the left. These two roads come togeth¬ 
er aerain some miles out. General Prentiss’ division was camped on this left- 
hand road at right angles to it. Our regiment went into camp almost on the 
extreme left of Prentiss’ line. There was a brigade of Sherman’s division 
under General Stuart still further to the left, about a mile, I think, in camp 
near a ford of Lick Creek, where the Hamburg and Purdy road crosses the 
creek; and between me left of Prentiss’ and General Stuart’s camp there 
were no troops. I know that, for during the few days intervening between 
our arrival and the battle I roamed all through those woods on our left, be¬ 
tween us and Stuart, hunting for wild onions and “turkey peas.” 

The camp of our regiment was about two miles from the landing. The 
tents were pitched in the woods, and there was a little field of about twen¬ 
ty acres in our front. The camp faced nearly west, or possibly southwest. 

I shall never forget how glad I was to get off that old steamboat and 
be on solid ground once more, in camp out in those old woods. My com¬ 
pany had made the trip from St. Louis to Pittsburg Landing on the hurri¬ 
cane deck of the steamboat, and our fare on the route had been hardtack 
and raw fat meat, washed down with river water, as we had no chance to 
cook anything, and we had not then learnt the trick of catching the surplus 
hot water ejected from the boilers and making coffee with it. But once on 
solid ground, with plenty of wood to make fires, that bill of fare was chang¬ 
ed. I shall never again eat meat that will taste as good as tfte fried “sow¬ 
belly” did then, accompanied by “flapjacks” and plenty of good, strong cof¬ 
fee. We had not yet got settled down to the regular drills, guard duty was 
light, and things generally seemed to run “kind of loose.” And then the 
climate was delightful. We had just left the bleak, frozen north, where at! 
was cold and cheerless, and we found ourselves in a clime where the air 
was as soft and warm as it was in Illinois in the latter part of May. The 
green grass was springing from the ground, the “Johnny-jump-ups” were in 
blossom, the trees were bursting into leaf, and the woods were full of feath¬ 
ered songsters. There was a redbird that would come every morning 'about. 


28 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


sunup and perch himself in the tall black-oak tree in our company street, and 
for perhaps an hour he would practice on his impatient querulous note, that 
said, as plain as a bird could say, “Boys, boys! get up! get up! get up!” It 
became a standing remark among the boys that he was a Union redbird and 
had enlisted in our regiment to sound the reveille. 

So the time passed pleasantly away until that eventful Sunday morn¬ 
ing, April 6, 1862. According to the Tribune Almanac for that year, the 
sun rose that morning in Tennessee at 38 minutes past 5 o’clock. I had no 
watch, but I have always been of the opinion that the sun was fully an hour 
and a half high .before the fighting began on our part of the line. We had 
“turned out” about sunup, answered to roll-call, and had cooked and. eaten 
our breakfast. We had then gone to work, preparing for the regular Sun¬ 
day morning inspection, which would take place at 9 o’clock. The boys 
were scattered around the company streets and in front of the company pa¬ 
rade grounds, engaged in polishing and brightening their muskets, and brush¬ 
ing up and cleaning their shoes, jackets, trousers, and clothing generally. It 
was a most beautiful morning. The sun was shining brightly through the 
trees, and there was not a cloud in the sky. It really seemed like Sunday in the 
country at home. During week days there was a continual stream of army 
wagons going to and from the landing, and the clucking of their wheels, the 
yells and oaths of the drivers, the cracking of whips, mingled with the bray¬ 
ing of the mules, the neighing of the horses, the commands of the officers 
engaged in drilling the men, the incessant hum and buzz of the camps, the 
blare of bugles, and the roll of drums,—all these made up a prodigious vol¬ 
ume of sound that lasted from the coming-up to the going-down of the sun. 
But this morning was strangely still. The wagons were silent, the mules 
were peacefully munching their hay, and the army teamsters were giving 
us a rest. I listened with delight to the plaintive, mournful notes of a turtle¬ 
dove in the woods close by, while on the dead limb of a tall tree right in the 
camp, a woodpecker was sounding his “long roll” just as I had heard it 
beaten by his Northern brothers a thousand times on the trees in the Otter 
Creek bottom at home. 

Suddenly, away off on the right, in the direction of Shiloh church, came 
a dull, heavy “Pum!” then another, and still another. Every man sprung 
to his feet as if struck by an electric shock, and we looked inquiringly into 
one another’s faces. “What is that?” asked every one, but no one answered. 
Those heavy booms then came thicker and faster, and just a few seconds 
after we heard that first dull, ominous growl off to the southwest, came a 
low, sullen, continuous roar. There was no mistaking that sound. That 
was not a squad of pickets emptying their guns on being relieved from duty; 
it was the continuous roll of thousands of muskets, and told us that a bat¬ 
tle was on. 

What I have been describing just now occurred in a few seconds only, 
and with the roar of musketry the long roll began to beat in our camp. 
Then ensued a scene of desperate haste, the like which I certainly had nev¬ 
er seen before, nor ever saw again. I remember that in the midst of this 
terrible uproar and confusion, while the boys were buckling on their cart¬ 
ridge boxes, and before even the companies had been formed, a mounted 
staff officer came galloping wildly down the line from the right. He check¬ 
ed and whirled his horse sharply around right in our company street, the 
iron-bound hoofs of his steed crashing among the tin plates lying in a little 
nile where my mess had eaten its breakfast that morning. The horse was 
flecked with foam and its eyes and nostrils were red as blood. The officer 
cast one hurried glance around him, and exclaimed: “My God! this regi¬ 
ment not in line yet! They have been fighting on the right over an hour!” 
And wheeling his horse, he disappeared in the direction of the colonel’s tent. 

I know now that history says the battle began about 4:30 that morn¬ 
ing; that it was brought on by a reconnoitering party sent out early that 
morning by General Prentiss; that General Sherman’s division on the right 
was early advised of the approach of the Rebel army, and got ready to meet 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


29 


them in ample time. I have read these things in books and am not disput¬ 
ing them, but am simply telling the story of an enlisted man on the left of 
Prentiss’ line as to what he saw and knew of the condition of things at 
about seven o’clock that morning. 

Well, the companies were formed, we marched out on the regimental 
parade ground, and the regiment was formed in line. The command was 
given: “Load at will; load!” We had anticipated this, however, as the most 
of us had instinctively loaded our guns before we had formed company. All 
this time tile roar on the right was getting nearer and louder. Our old 
colonel rode up close to us, opposite the center of the regimental line, and 
called out, “Attention, battalion!” We fixed our eyes on him to hear what 
was coming. It turned out to be the old man’s battle harangue. 

“Gentlemen,” said he, in a voice that every man in the regiment heard, 
“remember your State, and do your duty today like brave men.” 

That was all. A year later in the war the old man doubtless would 
have addressed us as “soldiers,” and not as “gentlemen,” and he would have 
omitted his allusion to the “State,” which smacked a little of Confederate 
notions. However, he was a Douglas Democrat, and his mind was probably 
running on Buena Vista, in the Mexican War, where, it is said, a Western 
regiment acted badly, and threw a cloud over the reputation for courage of 
the men of that State which required the thunders of the Civil War to dis¬ 
perse. Immediately after the colonel had given us his brief exhortation, the 
regiment was marched across the little field I have before mentioned, and 
we took our place in line of battle, the woods in front of us, and the open 
field in our rear. We “dressed on” the colors, ordered arms, and stood 
awaiting the attack. By this time the roar on the right had become ter¬ 
rific. The Rebel army was unfolding its front, and the battle was steadily 
advancing in our direction. We could begin to see the blue rings of smoke 
curling upward among the trees off to the right, and the pungent smell of 
burning gun-powder filled the air. As the roar came traveling down the 
line from the right it reminded me (only it was a million times louder) of 
the sweep of a thunder-shower in summer-time over the hard ground of a 
stubble-field. 

And there wer stood, in the edge of the woods, so still, waiting for the 
storm to break on us. I know mighty well what I was thinking about then. 
My mind’s eye was fixed on a little log cabin, far away to the north, in the 
backwoods of western Illinois. I could see my father sitting on the porch, 
reading the little local newspaper, brought from the post-office the evening 
before. There was my mother getting my little brothers ready for Sunday- 
school; the old dog lying asleep in the sun; the hens cackling about the 
barn; all these things and a hundred other tender recollections rushed into 
my mind. I am not ashamed to say now that I would willingly have given 
a general quit-claim deed for every jot and tittle of military glory falling to 
me, past, present, and to come, if I only could have been miraculously and 
instantaneously set down in the yard of that peaceful little home, a thou¬ 
sand miles away from the haunts of fighting men. 

The time we thus stood, awaiting the attack, could not have exceeded 
five minutes. Suddenly, obliquely to our right, there was a long, wavy 
flash of bright light, then another, and another! It was tne sunlight shin¬ 
ing on gun barrels and bayonets—and—there they were at last! A long 
brown line, with muskets at a right shoulder shift, in excellent order, right 
through the woods they came. 

We began firing at once. From one end of the regiment to the other 
leaped a sheet of red flame, and the roar that went up from the edge of 
that old field doubtless advised General Prentiss of the fact that the Rebels 
had at last struck the extreme left of his line. We had fired but two or 
three rounds when, for some reason,—I never knew what,—we were order¬ 
ed to fall back across the field, and did so. The whole line, so far as I could 
see to the right, went back. We halted on the other side of the field, in 
the edge of the woods, in front of our tents, and again began firing. The 


30 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


Rebels, of course, had moved up and occupied the line we had just abandon¬ 
ed. And here we did our first hard fighting during the day. Our officers 
said, after the battle was over, that we held this line an hour and ten min¬ 
utes. How long it was I do not know. I “took no note of time.” 

We retreated from this position, as our officers afterwards said, because 
the troops on our right had given way, and we were flanked. Possibly those 
boys on our right would give the same excuse for their leaving, and prob¬ 
ably truly, too. Still, I think we did not fall back a minute too soon. As I 
rose from the comfortable log from behind which a bunch of us had been 
firing, I saw men in gray and brown clothes, with trailed muskets, running 
through the camp on our right, and I saw something else, too, that sent a 
chill all through me. It was a kind of flag I had never seen before. It was 
a gaudy sort of thing, with red bars. It flashed over me in a second that 
that thing was a Rebel flag. It was not more than sixty yards to the right. 
The smoke around it was low and dense and kept me from seeing the man 
who was carrying it, ~ut I plainly saw the banner. It was going fast, with 
a jerky motion, which told me that the bearer was on a double-quick. About 
that time we left. We observed no kind of order in leaving; the main thing 
was to get out of there as quick as we could. I ran down our company 
street, and in passing the big Sibley tent of our mess I thought of my knap¬ 
sack with all my traps and belongings, including that precious little packet 
of letters from home. I said to myself, “I will save my knapsack, anyhow,” 
but one quick backward glance over my left shoulder made me change my 
mind, and I went on. I never saw my knapsack or any of its contents after¬ 
wards. 

Our broken forces halted and re-formed about half a mile to the rear 
of our camp on the summit of a gentle ridge, covered with thick brush. I 
recognized our regiment by the little gray pony the old colonel rode, and 
hurried to my place in the ranks. Standing there with our faces once more 
to the front, I saw a seemingly endless column of men in blue, marching 
by the flank, who were filing off to the right through the woods, and I heard 
our old German adjutant, Cramer, say to the colonel, “Dose are de troops 
of Sheneral Hurlbut. He is forming a new line dere in de bush.” I ex¬ 
claimed to myself from the bottom of my heart, “Bully for General Hurl¬ 
but and the new line in the bush! Maybe we’ll whip ’em yet.” I shall 
never forget my felings about this time. I was astonished at our first re¬ 
treat in the morning across the field back to our camp, but it occurred to 
me that maybe that was only “strategy” and all done on purpose; but when 
we had to give un our camp, and actually turn our backs and run half 
a mile, it seemed to me that we were forever disgraced, and I kept think¬ 
ing to myself: “What will they say about this at home?” 

I was very dry for a drink, and as we were doing nothing just then, I 
slipped out of ranks and ran down to the little hollow in our rear, in search 
of water. Finding a little pool, I threw myself on the ground and took a 
copious draught. As I rose to my feet, I observed an officer about a rod 
above me also quenching his thirst, holding his horse meanwhile by the 
bridle. As he arose I saw it was our old adjutant. At no other time would I 
have dared accost him unless in the line of duty, but the situation made 
me bold. “Adjutant,” I said, “What does this mean—our having to run 
this way? Ain’t we whipped?” He blew the water from his mustache, and 
quickly answered in a careless way: “Oh, no; dat is all ride. We yoost fall 
back to form on the reserve. Sheneral Buell vas now crossing der river mit 
50,000 men. and vill be here pootv quick; and Sheneral Lew Vallace is com¬ 
ing from Crump’s Landing mit 15,000 more. Ve vips ’em; ve vips ’em. Go 
to your gompany.” Back I went on the run. with a heart as light as a feath¬ 
er. As I took my place in the ranks beside my chum, JaoK Medford, I said 
to him: “Jack, I’ve just had a talk with the old adjutant, down at the 
branch where I’ve been to get a drink. He says Buell is crossing the river 
with 75,000 men and a whole world of cannon, and that some other general is 
coming up from Crump’s Landing with 25,000 more men. He says we fell 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER, 


31 


back here all on purpose, and that we’re going to whip the Secesh, just 
sure. Ain’t that just perfectly bully?” I had improved some on the adju¬ 
tant’s figures, as the news was so glorious I thought a little variance of 
25,000 or 30,000 men would make no difference in the end. But as the long 
hours wore on that day, and still Buell and Wallace did not come, my faith 
in the adjutant’s veracity became considerably shaken. 

It was at this point that my regiment was detached from Prentiss’ di¬ 
vision and served with it no more that day. We were sent some distance to 
the right to support a Datiery, the name of which I never learnt.* It was oc¬ 
cupying the summit of a slope, and was actively engaged when we reached it. 
We were put in position about twenty rods in the rear of the battery, and 
ordered to lie flat on the ground. The ground sloped gently down in our di¬ 
rection, so that by hugging it close, the rebel shot and shell went over us. 

It was here, at about ten o’clock in the morning, that I first saw Grant 
that day. He was on horse-back, of course, accompanied by his staff, and 
was evidently making a personal examination of his lines. He went by us 
in a gallop, riding between us and the battery, at the head of his staff. The 
battery was then hotly engaged; shot and shell were whizzing overhead, 
and cutting off the limbs of trees, but Grant rode through the storm with 
perfect indifference, seemingly paying no more attention to the missiles 
than if they had been paper wads. 

We remained in support of this battery until about 2 o’clock in the after¬ 
noon. We were then put in motion by the right flank, filed to the left, cross¬ 
ed the left-hand Corinth road; then we were thrown into line by the com¬ 
mand: “By the left flank, march.” We crossed a little ravine and up a 
slope, and relieved a regiment on the left of Hurlbut’s line. This line was 
desperately engaged, and had been at this point, as we afterwards learned, 
for fully four hours. I remember as we went up the slope and began firing, 
about the first thing that met my gaze was what out West we would call a 
“windrow” of dead men in blue; some doubled up face downward, others 
with their white faces upturned to the sky, brave boys who had been shot 
to death in “holding the line.” Here we stayed until our last cartridge was 
shot away. We were then relieved by another regiment. We filled our 
cartridge boxes again and went back to the support of our battery. Tiie 
boys laid down and talked in low tones. Many of our comrades alive and 
well an hour ago, we had left dead on that bloody ridge. And still the bat¬ 
tle raged. From right to left, everywhere, it was one never-ending, terrible 
roa.IT with no prospect of stopping. 

Somewhere betwen 4 and 5 o’clock, as near as I can tell, everything be¬ 
came ominously quiets Our battery ceased firing; the gunners leaned against 
the pieces and talked and laughed. Suddenly a staff officer rode up and 
said something in a low tone to the commander of the battery, then rode 
to our colonel and said something to him. The battery horses were at once 
brought up from a ravine in the rear, and the battery limbered up and moved 
off through the woods diagonally to the left and rear. We were put in motion 
by the flank and followed it. Everything kept so still, the loudest noise 
I heard was the clucking or the wheels of the gun-carriages and caissons 
as they wound througn the woods. We emerged from the woods and enter- 
a little old field. I then saw to our right and front lines of men in blue 
moving in the same direction we were, and it was evident that we were 
falling back. All at once, on the right, the left, and from our recent front, 
came one tremendous roar, and the bullets fell like hail. The lines took 
the double-quick towards the rear. For awhile the attempt was made to fall 
in order, and then everything went to pieces. My heart failed me utterly. 
I thought the day was lost. A confused mass of men and guns, caissons, 
army wagons, ambulances, and all the debris of a beaten army surged and 
crowded along the narrow dirt road to the landing, while that pitiless storm 


* Some years after this sketch was written I ascertained that this battery was 
Richardson’s, Co. D, 1st Missouri Light Artillery. 



THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER 


of leaden hail came crashing on us from the rear. It was undoubtedly at this 
crisis in our affairs that the division of General Prentiss was captured. 

I will digress here for a minute to speak of a little incident connected 
with this disastrous feature of the day that has always impressed me as a 
pathetic instance of the patriotism and unselfish devotion to the cause that 
was by no means uncommon among the rank and file of the Union armies. 

There was in my company a middle-aged German named Charles Ober- 
dieck. According to the company descriptive-book, he was a native of the 
then kingdom of Hanover, now a province of Prussia. He was a typical Ger¬ 
man, flaxen-haired, blue-eyed, quiet and taciturn, of limited and meager edu¬ 
cation, but a model soldier, who accepted without question and obeyed with¬ 
out a murmur the orders of his military superiors. Prior to the war he had 
made his living by chopping cord-wood in the high, timbered hills near the 
mouth of the Illinois river, or by working as a common laborer in the country 
on the farms at $14 a month. He was unmarried, his parents were dead, and 
he had no other immediate relatives surviving, either in his fatherland or in 
the country of his adoption. He and I enlisted from the same neighbor¬ 
hood. I had known him in civil life at home, and hence he was disposed 
to be more communicative with me than with the other boys of the company. 
A day or two after the battle he and I were sitting in the shade of a tree, in 
camp, talking over the incidents of the fight. “Charley,” I said to him, 
“How did you feel along about four o’clock Sunday afternoon when they 
broke our lines, we were falling back in disorder, and it looked like the 
whole business was gone up generally?” He knocked the ashes from his 
pipe and, turning his iace quickly towards me, said: “I yoost tells you how 
I feels. I no care anydings about Charley; he haf no wife nor children, fad¬ 
der nor mudder, v brudder nor sister; if Charley get killed, it makes no dif¬ 
ference; dere was nobody to cry for him, so I dinks nudding about myselfs; 
but I tells you, I yoost den feels bad for de Cause!” 

Noble, simple-hearted old Charley! It was the imminent danger only 
to the Cause that made his heart sink in that seemingly fateful hour. When 
we heard in the malignant and triumphant roaf* of the Rebel cannon in our 
rear, what might be the death-knell of the last great experiment of civilized 
men to establish among the nations of the world a united republic, freed 
from the curse of pampered kings and selfish, grasping aristocrats—it was 
in that moment, in his simple language, that the peril to the Cause was the 
supreme and only consideration. 

It must have been when we were less than half a mile from the land¬ 
ing on our disorderly retreat before mentioned, that we saw standing in line 
of battle at ordered arms, extending from both sides of the road until lost 
to sight in the woods, a long, well-ordered line of men in blue. What did 
that mean? and where had they come from? I was walking by the side 
of Enoch Wallace, the orderly sergeant of my company. He was a man of 
nerve and courage, and by word and deed had done more that day to hold 
us green and untried boys in ranks and firmly to our duty than any other 
man in the company. But even he, in the face of this seemingly appalling 
state of things, had evidently lost heart. I said to him: “Enoch, what are 
those men there for?” He answered in a low tone: “I guess they are 
put there to hold the Rebels in check till the army can get across the river.” 
And doubtless that was the thought of every intelligent soldier in our beaten 
column. And yet it goes to show how little the common soldier knew of 
the actual situation. We did not know then that this line was the last line 
of battle of the “Fighting Fourth Division” under General Hurlbut; that on 
its right was the division of McClernand, the Fort Donelson boys; that on 
its right, at right angles to it, and, as it were, the refused wing of the army, 
was glorious old Sherman, hanging on with a bulldog grip to the road across 
Snake Creek from Crump’s Landing by which Lew Wallace was coming 
with 5,000 men. In other words, we still had an unbroken line confronting 
the enemy, made up of men who were not yet ready, by any manner of means, 
to give up that they were whipped. Nor did we know then that our re- 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


33 


treating mass consisted only of some regiments of Hurlbut’s division, and 
some other isolated commands, who had not been duly notified of the reces¬ 
sion of Hurlbut and of his falling back to form a new line, and thereby came 
very near sharing the fate of Prentiss’ men and being marched to the rear 
as prisoners of war. Speaking for myself, it was twenty years after the 
battle before I found these things out, yet they are true, just as much so as 
the fact that the sun rose yesterday morning. Well, we filed through Hurl- 
hut’s line, halted, re-formed, and faced to the front once more. We were 
Put in place a short distance in the rear of Hurlbut, as a support to some 
heavy guns. It must have been about five o’clock now. Suddenly, on the 
extreme left, and just a little above the landing, came a deafening explosion 
that fairly shook the ground beneath our feet, followed by others in quick 
and ' regular succession. The look of wonder and inquiry that the soldiers’ 
faces wore for a moment disappeared for one of joy and exultation as it 
flashed across our minds that the gun boats had at last joined hands in the 
dance, and were pitching big twenty-pound Parrott shells up the ravine in 
front of Hurlbut, to'the terror and discomfiture of our adversaries. 

The last place my regiment assumed was close to the road coming up 
from the landing. As we were lying there I heard the strains of martial 
music and saw a body of men marching by the flank up the road. I slipped 
out of ranks and walked out to the side of the road to see what troops 
they were. Their band was playing “Dixie’s Land,” and playing it well. The 
men were marchinft at a quick step, carrying their guns, cartridge-boxes, hav¬ 
ersacks, canteensrand blanket-rolls. I saw that they had not been in the 
fight, for there was no powder-smoke on their faces. “What regiment is 
this?” I asked of a young sergeant marching on the flank. Back came the 
answer in a quick, cheery tone, “The 36th Indiana, the advance guard of 
Buell’s army.” 

I did not, on hearing this, throw my cap into the air and yell. That 
would have given those Indiana fellows a chance to chaff and guy me, and 
possibly make sarcastic remarks, which I did not care to provoke. I gave one 
big, gasping swallow and stood still, but the blood thumped in the veins 
of my throat and my heart fairly pounded against my little infantry jacket 
in the joyous rapture of this glorious intelligence. Soldiers need not be told 
of the thrill of unspeakable exultation they all have felt at the sight of armed 
friends in danger’s darkest hour. Speaking for myself alone, I can only say, 
in the most heart-felt sincerity, that in all my obscure military career, never 
to me was the sight of reinforcing legions so precious and so welcome as on 
that Sunday evening when the rays of the descending sun were flashed back 
from the bayonets of Buell’s advance column as it deployed on the bluffs of 
Pittsburg Landing. 

My account of the battle is about done. So far as I saw or heard, very lit¬ 
tle fighting was done that evening after Buell’s advance crossed the river. The 
sun must have been fully an. hour high when anything like regular and con¬ 
tinuous firing had entirely ceased. What the result would have been if Beau¬ 
regard had massed his troops on our left and forced the fighting late Sunday 
evening would be a matter of opinion, and a common soldier’s opinion would 
not be considered worth much. 

My regiment was held in reserve the next day, and was not engaged. 
I have, therefore, no personal experiences of that day to relate. After the 
battle of Shiloh, it fell to my lot to play my humble part in several other 
fierce conflicts of arms, but Shiloh was my maiden fight. It was there I 
first saw a gun fired in anger, heard the whistle of a bullet, or saw a man 
die a violent death, and my experiences,' thoughts, impressions, and sensa¬ 
tions on that bloody Sunday will abide with me as long as I live. 


CHAPTER IV. 


SOME INCIDENTS OF THE BATTLE OF SHILOH. 

T HERE WERE MANY little incidents at Shiloh that came under my per¬ 
sonal observation that I did not mention in the foregoing sketch. The 
matter of space was important, so I passed them over. But that considera¬ 
tion does not arise now, and as I am writing this for you, I will say some¬ 
thing here about several things that I think may be of some interest. 

I distinctly remember my first shot at Shiloh. It was fired when we were 
in our first position, as described in my account of the battle.' I think that 
when the boys saw the enemy advancing they began firing of their own mo¬ 
tion, without waiting for orders. At least, I don’t remember hearing any. I 
was in the front rank, but didn’t fire. I preferred to wait for a good oppor¬ 
tunity, when I could take deliberate aim at some individual foe. But when 
the regiment fired, the Confederates halted and began firing also, and the 
fronts of both lines were at once shrouded in smoke. I had my gun at a 
ready, and was trying to peer under the smoke in order to get a sight of our 
enemies. Suddenly I heard some one in a highly excited tone calling to me 
from just in my rear,—“Stillwell! shoot! shoot! Why don’t you shoot?” I 
looked around and saw thai this command was being given by Bob Wylder, our 
second lieutenant, who was in his place, just a few steps to the rear. He was 
a young man, about twenty-five years old, and was fairly wild with excite¬ 
ment, jumping up and down “like a hen on a hot griddle.” “Why, lieutenant,” 
said I, “I can’t see anything to shoot at.” “Shoot, shoot, anyhow!” “All 
right,” I responded, “if you say shoot, shoot it is;” and bringing my gun to 
my shoulder I aimed low in the direction of the enemy, and blazed away 
through the smoke. I have always doubted if this, my first shot, did any exe¬ 
cution,—but there’s no telling. However, the lieutenant was clearly right. 
Our adversaries were in our front, in easy range, and it was our duty to aim 
low, fire in their general direction, and let fate do the rest. But at the time 
the idea to me was ridiculous that one should blindly shoot into a cloud of 
§moke without having a bead on the object to be shot at. I had shot squir¬ 
rels and rabbits, and other small game, in the big woods adjacent to our 
backwoods home from the time I was big enough to carry a gun. In fact, 

I began when I was too small to shoot “off hand,” but had to fire from a 
“rest,”—any convenient stump, log, or forked bush. The gun I used was a 
little old percussion lock rifle, with a long barrel, carrying a bullet which 
weighed about sixty to the pound. We boys had to furnish our own ammu¬ 
nition,—lead, (which we moulded into bullets), gun-caps, and powder. Our 
principal source of revenue whereby we got money to buy ammunition was 
hazel-nuts, which we would gather, shuck, and sell at five cents a quart. And 
the work incident to the gathering and shucking of a quart of hazel¬ 
nuts was a decidedly tedious job. But it made us economical in the use of 
our ordnance stores, so we would never throw away a shot carelessly, or un¬ 
necessarily. And it was a standing rule never to shoot a squirrel anywhere 
except in the head, save as a last resort, when circumstances compelled one 
to fire at some other part of the body of the little animal. And so I thought, 
at the beginning of my military career, that I should use the same care 
and circumspection in firing an old musket when on the line of battle that 
I had exercised in hunting squirrels. But I learnt better in about the first 
five minutes of the battle of Shiloh. However, in every action I was in, when 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER, 


35 


the opportunity was afforded, I took careful and deliberate aim, but many 
a time the surroundings were such that the only thing to do was to hold 
low, and fire through the smoke in the direction of the enemy. I will say 
here that the extent of wilu shooting done in battle, especially by raw 
troops, is astonishing, and rather hard to understand. When we fell back to 
our second line at Shiloh I heard an incessant humming sound away up 
above our heads, like the flight of a swarm of bees. In my ignorance I, at 
first, hardly knew what that meant, but it presently dawned on me that the, 
noise was bullets singing through the air from twenty to a hundred feet 
over our heads. And after the battle I noticed that the big trees in our 
camp, just in the rear of our second line, were thickly pock-marked by mus¬ 
ket balls at a distance of fully a hundred feet from the ground. And yet 
we were separated from the Confederates only by a little, narrow field, and 
the intervening ground was perfectly level. But the fact is, those boys were 
fully as green as we were, and doubtless as much excited. The Confederate 
army at Shiloh was composed of soldiers, the great majority of whom went 
under fire there for the first time, and I reckon they were as nervous and 
badly scared as we were. 

I never shall forget how awfully I felt on seeing, for the first time, a 
man killed in battle. This occurred on our second position, above mention¬ 
ed. Our line of battle here was somewhat irregular, and the men had be¬ 
come mixed up. The trees and stumps were thick, and we availed ourselves 
of their protection whenever possible.. I had a tree, it was embarrassingly 
small, but better than none. I took to a log later. But there was a man just 
on my right behind a tree of generous proportions, and I somewhat envied 
him. He was actively engaged in loading and firing, and was standing up 
to the work well when I last saw him alive. But, all at once, there he was 
lying on his back, gt the foot of his tree, with one leg doubled under him, 
motionless,—and stone dead! He probably had been hit square in the head 
while aiming, or peeking around the tree. I stared at his body, perfectly 
horrified! Only a few seconds ago that man was alive and well, and now 
he was lying on the ground, done for, forever! The event came nearer com¬ 
pletely upsetting me than anything else that occurred during the entire bat¬ 
tle—but I got used to such incidents in the course of the day. 

After rallying at our third position, we were moved a short distance to 
the rear, and formed in line at right angles to the road from our camp to 
the landing. While standing there I casually noticed a large wall tent at 
the side of the road, a few steps to my rear. It was closed up, and nobody 
stirring around it. Suddenly I heard, right over our heads, a frightful 
“s-s-wis-sh,”—and followed by a loud crash in this tent. Looking around, 1 
saw a big, gaping hole in the wall of the tent, and on the other side got a 
glimpse of the cause of the disturbance,—a big cannon ball ricochetting 
down the ridge, and hunting further mischief. And at the same moment 
of time, the front flaps of the tent were frantically thrown open, and out 
popped a fellow in citizen’s clothes. He had a Hebrew visage, his face was 
as white as a dead man’s, and his eyes were sticking out like a crawfish’s. 
He started down the road toward the landing at probably the fastest gait he 
had ever made in his life, his coat tails streaming behind him, and the boys 
yelling at him. We proceeded to investigate the interior of that tent at 
once, and found that it was a sutler’s establishment, and crammed with sut¬ 
ler goods. The panic-struck individual who had just vacated it was of course 
the proprietor. He had adopted ostrich tactics, had buttoned himself up 
in the tent, and was in there keeping as still as a mouse, thinking, perhaps, 
that as he could see nobody, nobody could see him. That cannon ball must 
have been a rude surprise. In order to have plenty of “han’ roomance,” we 
tore down the tent ai once, and then proceeded to appropriate the contents. 
There were barrels of apples, bologna sausages, cheeses, canned oysters and 
sardines, and lots of other truck. I was filling my haversack with bologna 
when old Col. Fry rode up to me and said: “My son, will you please give me 
a link of that sausage?” Under the circumstances, I reckon I must have 


36 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


been feeling somewhat impudent and reckless, so I answered rather saucily, 
“Certainly, Colonel, we are closing out this morning below cost;” and I 
thrust into his hands two or three big links of bologna. There was a faint 
trace of a grin on the old man’s face as he took the provender, and he be¬ 
gan gnawing at once on one of the hunks, while the others he stowed away 
in his equipments. I suspected from this incident that the Colonel had had 
no breakfast that morning, which perhaps may have been the case. Soon 
after this I made another deal. There were some cavalry in line close by 
us, and one of them called out to me, “Pardner, give me some of them ap¬ 
ples.” “You bet;” said I, and quickly filling my cap with the fruit, handed 
it to him. He emptied the apples in his haversack, took a silver dime from 
his pocket, and proffered it to me, saying, “Here.” “Keep your money— 
don’t want it;” was my response, but he threw the coin at my feet, and I 
picked it up and put it in my pocket. It came agreeably handy later. 

Jack Medford of my company came up to me with a most complacent 
look on his face, and patting his haversack, said, “Lee, I just now got a 
whole lot of paper and envelopes, and am all fixed for writing home about 
this battle.” “Seems to me, Jack,” I suggested, “you’d better unload that 
stuff, and get something to eat. Don’t worry about writing home about the 
battle till it’s done fought.” Jack’s countenance changed, he muttered, “Rec¬ 
kon you’re right, Lee;” and wiien next I saw him, his haversack was bulg¬ 
ing with bologna and cheese. All this time the battle was raging furiously 
on our right, and occasionally a cannon ball, flying high, went screaming ov¬ 
er our heads. Walter Scott, in “The Lady of the Lake,” in describing an in¬ 
cident of the battle of Beal’ an Duine, speaks of the unearthly screaming 
and yelling that occurred, sounding— 

“As if all the fiends from heaven that fell, 

Had pealed the banner-cry of hell.” 

That comparison leaves much for the imagination, but, speaking from exper¬ 
ience, I will say that qf all the blood-curdling sounds I ever heard the worst 
is the terrific scream of a cannon ball or shell passing close over one’s 
head; especially that kind with a cavity in the' base that sucks in air. At 
least, they sounded that way till I got used to them. As a matter of fact, 
artillery in my time was not near as dangerous as musketry. It was noisy, 
but didn’t kill often unless at close range and firing grape and canister. 

As stated in the preceding sketch, sometime during the forenoon the reg¬ 
iment was sent to the support of a battery, and remained there for some 
hours. The most trying situation in battle is one where you have to lie flat 
on the ground, under fire more or less, and without any opportunity to re¬ 
turn it. The constant strain on the nerves is almost intolerable. So it was 
with feelings of grim, but heart-felt relief, that we finally heard t^e Colonel 
command, “Attention, battallion!” Our turn had come at last. We sprang 
to our feet with alacrity, and were soon in motion, marching by the flank di¬ 
agonally towards the left, from whence, for some hours, had been proceed¬ 
ing heavy firing. We had not gone far before I saw something which hard¬ 
ly had an inspiring effect. We were marching along an old, grass-grown coun¬ 
try road, with a rail-fence on the right which inclosed’a sort of woods’ pas¬ 
ture, and with a dense forest on our left, when I saw a soldier on our left, 
slowly making his way to the rear. He had been struck a sort of glancing 
shot on the left side of his face, and the skin and flesh of his cheek were 
hanging in shreds. His face and neck were covered with blood, and he was 
a frightful sight. Yet he seemed to be perfectly cool and composed and 
wasn’t “taking on” a bit. As he came opposite my company, he looked up at 
us and said, “Give ’em hell, boys! They’ve spoiled my beauty.” It was man¬ 
ifest that he was not exaggerating. 

When we were thrown into line on our new position and began firing, I 
was in the front rank, and my rear rank man was Philip Potter, a young 
Irishman, who was some years my senior. When he fired his first shot, he 
came very near putting me out of action. I think that the muzzle of his gun 
could not have been more than two or three inches from my right ear. The 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


37 


shock of the report almost deafened me at the time, and my neck and right 
cheek were peppered with powder grains which remained there for years 
until finally absorbed in the system. I turned to Phil, in a fury, exclaim¬ 
ing, “What in the hell and damnation do you mean?” Just then down went 
cae man on my right -with a sharp cry, and followed by the one on the left, 
both apparently severely wounded. The thought of my shocking conduct, in 
thus indulging in wicked profanity at such a time, flashed upon me, and I 
almost held my breath, expecting summary punishment on the spot. But 
nothing of the kind happened. And, according to history, Washington swore 
a good deal worse at the battle of Monmouth,—and Potter was more careful 
thereafter. 

Poor Phil! On December 7, 1864, while fighting on the skirmish line near 
Murfreesboro, Tennessee, and just a few paces to my left, he was mortally 
wounded by a gun-shot wound in the bowels, and died in the hospital a few 
days later. He was a Catholic, and in his last hours was almost frantic 
because no priest was at hand to grant him absolution. 

Right after we began firing on this line I noticed directly in my front, 
and not more than two hundred yards away, a large Confederate flag flap¬ 
ping defiantly in the breeze. The smoke was too dense to enable me to see 
the bearer, but the banner was distinctly visible. It looked hateful to me, 
and I wanted to see it come down. So I held on it> let my gun slowly fall 
until I thought the sights were about on a waist line, and then fired. I 
peered eagerly under the smoke to see the effect of my shot,—but the blamed 
thing was still flying. I fired three or four more shots on the same line as 
the first, but with no apparent results. I then concluded that the bearer was 
probably squatted behind a stump, or something, and that it was useless to 
waste ammunition on him. Diagonally to my left, perhaps- two hundred and 
fifty yards away, the Confederate line of battle was in plain sight. It was 
in the open, in the edge of an old field, with woods to the rear. It afforded 
a splendid mark. Even the ramrods could be seen flashing in the air, as the 
men, while in the act of loading, drew and returned the rammers. There¬ 
upon I began firing at the enemy on that part of the line, and the balance 
of the contents of my cartridge box went in that direction. It was impos¬ 
sible to tell if any of my shots took effect, but after the battle I went to the 
spot., and looked over the ground. The Confederate dead lay there thick, 
and I wondered, as I looked at them, if I had killed any of those poor fel¬ 
lows. Of course I didn’t know, and am glad now that I didn’t. And I will 
say here that I do not now have any conclusive knowledge that during my en¬ 
tire term of service, I ever killed, or even wounded, a single man. It is 
more than probable that some of my shots were fatal, but I don’t know it, 
and am thankful for the ignorance. 

When we “went in” on this position, old Capt. Reddish took his place in 
the ranks, and fought like a common soldier. He had picked up the mus¬ 
ket of some dead or wounded man, and filled his pockets with cartridges and 
gun caps, and so was well provided with ammunition. He unbuckled his 
sword from the belt, and laid it in the scabbard at his‘ feet, and proceeded 
to give his undivided attention to the enemy. I can now see the old man 
in my mind’s eye, as he stood in ranks, loading and firing, his blue-gray 
eyes flashing, and his face lighted up with the flame of battle. Col. Fry hap¬ 
pened to be near us at one time, and I heard old Capt. John yell at him: “In¬ 
jun fightin,’ Colonel! Jest like Injun fightin’!” When we finally retired, 
the Captain shouldered his musket and trotted off with the rest of us, obliv¬ 
ious of his “cheese-knife,” as he called it, left it lying on the ground, and 
never saw it again. 

There was a battery of light artillery on this line, about a quarter of a 
mile to our right, on a slight elevation of the ground. It was right flush up 
with the infantry line of battle, and O! how those artillery men handled 
their guns! It seemed to me that there was the roar of a cannon from that 
battery about every other second. When ramming cartridge, I some¬ 
times glanced in that direction. The men were big fellows, stripped to the 


38 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


hips, their white skins flashing in the sunlight, and they were working like 
1 have seen men doing when fighting a big fire in the woods. I fairly gloated 
over the fire of that battery. “Give it to them, my sons of thunder!” I 
would say to myself; “Knock the ever-lastin’ stuffin’ out of ’em!” And, as 
I ascertained after the battle, they did do frightful execution. 

In consideration of the fact that now-a-days, as you know, I refuse to 
even kill a chicken, some of the above expressions may sound rather strange. 
But the fact is, a soldier, on the fighting line, is possessed by the demon of 
destruction. He wants to kill, and the more of his adversaries he can see 
kiMed, the more intense his gratification. Gen. Grant somewhere in his Me¬ 
moirs expresses the idea (only in milder language than mine) when he say.: 

“While a battle is raging one can see his enemy mowed down by the 
thousand, or the ten thousand, with great composure.” 

The regiment bivouacked for the night on the bluff, not far from the 
historic “log house.” Rain set in about dark, and not wanting to lie in the 
water, I hunted around and found a little brush-pile evidently made by some 
man from a sapling he had cut down and trimmed up some time past wher 
the leaves were on the trees. I made a sort of pillow out of my gun, cart¬ 
ridge box, haversack and canteen, and stretched myself out on the brush- 
pile. tired to death, and rather discouraged over the evir.ts of the day. The 
main body of Buell’s men,—“the army of the Ohio” soon after lark began 
ascending the bluff at a point a little above the landing, and forming in line 
in the darkness a short distance beyond. I have a shadowy impression tha* 
this lasted the greater part of the night. Their regimental bands played 
continuously and it semed to me that they all played the tune of “The Girl 
I Left Behind Me.” And the rain drizzled down, while every fifteen minutes 
one of the big navy guns roared and sent a ponderous shell shrieking up the 
ravine above in the direction of the enemy. To this day, whenever I hear 
an instrumental band playing “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” there come to 
me the memories of that gloomy Sunday night at Pittsburg Landing. I 
again hear the ceaseless patter of the rain, the dull, heavy tread of Buell’s 
marching columns, the thunderous roar of tli6 navy guns, the demoniacal 
scream of the projectile, and mingled with it all is the sweet, plaintive 
music of that old song. We had an army version of it I have never seen in 
print, altogether different from the original ballad. The last stanza of this 
army production was as follows: 


“If ever I get through this war, 

And a rebel ball don’t find me, 

I’ll shape my course by the northern star, 
To the girl I left behind me.” 


I have said elsewhere that the regiment was not engaged on Monday. 
We remained all that day at the place where we bivouacked Sunday night. 
The ends of the staffs of our regimental flags were driven in the ground, the 
banners flapping idly in the breeze, while the men sat, or laid around, with 
their guns in their hands, or lying by them, their cartridge boxes buckled on, 
and all ready to fall in line at the tap of the drum. But from some reason 
that I never knew, we were not called on. Our division commander, General 
B. M. Prentiss, and our brigade commander, Col. Madison Miller, were both 
captured on Sunday with the bulk of Prentiss’ division, so I reckon we were 
sort of “lost children.” But we were not alone. There were also other reg¬ 
iments of Grant’s command that were held in reserve, and did not fire a 
shot on Monday. 

After the battle I roamed around over the field, the most of the follow¬ 
ing two days, looking at what was to be seen. The fearful sights apparent 
on a bloody battlefield simply cannot be described in all their horror. They 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


39 


must be seen in order to be fully realized. As Byron, somewhere in Don 
Juan, truly says: 

“Mortality! Thou has thy monthly bills. 

Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick, 

Like the death-watch, within our ears the ills 
Past, present, and to come;—but all may yield 
To the true portrait of one battle-field.” 

There was a small clearing on the battlefield called the “Peach Or¬ 
chard” field. It was of irregular shape, and about fifteen or twenty acres in 
extent, as I remember. However, I cannot now be sure as to the exact size. 
It got its name, probably, from the fact that there were on it a few scraggy 
peach trees. The Union troops on Sunday had a strong line in the woods just 
north of the field, and the Confederates made four successive charges across 
this open space on our line, all of which were repulsed with frightful slaugh¬ 
ter. I walked all over this piece of ground the day after the close of the bat¬ 
tle, and before the dead had been buried. It is the simple truth to say that 
this space was literally covered with the Confederate dead, and one could 
have walked all over it on their bodies. Gen. Grant, in substance, makes 
the same statement in his Memoirs. It was a fearful sight. But not far from 
the Peach Orchard field, in a westerly direction, was a still more gruesome 
spectacle. Some of our forces were in line on an old, grass-grown country 
road that ran through thick woods. The wheels of wagons, running for 
many years right in the same ruts, had cut through the turf, so that the sur¬ 
face of the road was somewhat lower than the adjacent ground. To men 
firing on their knees this afforded a slight natural breast-work, which was 
substantial protection. In front of this position, in addition to the large 
timber, was a dense growth of small under-brush, post-oak and the like, 
which had not yet shed their leaves, and the ground also was covered with 
layers of dead leaves. There was desperate fighting at this point, and dur¬ 
ing its progress exploding shells set the woods on fire. The clothing of the 
dead Confederates, lying in these woods, caught fire, and their bodies were 
burned to a crisp. I have read, somewhere, that some wounded men were 
burned to death, but I doubt that. I walked all over the ground looking at 
these poor fellows, and scrutinized them carefully to see the nature of their 
hurts, and they had evidently been shot dead, or expired in a few seconds 
after being struck. But, in any event, the sight was horrible. I will not 
go into details, but leave it to your imagination. 

I noticed, at other places on the field, the bodies of two Confederate sol¬ 
diers, whose appearance I shall never forget. They presented a remarkable 
contrast of death in battle. One was a full grown man, seemingly about 
thirty years of age, with sandy, reddish hair, and a scrubby beard and mus¬ 
tache of the same color. He had been firing from behind a tree, had ex 
Dosed his head, and had been struck square in the forehead by a musket 
ball, killed instantly, and had dropped at the foot of the tree in a heap. 
He was in the act of biting a cartridge when struck, his teeth were still 
fastened on the paper extremity, while his right hand clutched the bullet 
end. His teeth were long and snaggy, and discolored by tobacco juice. As 
just stated, he had been struck dead seemingly instantaneously. His eyes 
were wide open, and gleaming with satanic fury. His transition from life 
to death had been immediate, with the result that there was indelibly stamp¬ 
ed on his face all the furious rage and lust of battle. He was an ill-looking 
fellow, and all in all ,was not an agreeable object to contemplate. The 
other was a far different case. He was lying on a sloping ridge, where the 
Confederates had charged a battery, and had suffered fearfully. He was 
a mere boy, not over eighteen, with regular features, light brown hair, blue 
eyes, and, generally speaking,- was strikingly handsome. He had been 
struck on his right leg, above the knee, about mid-way the thigh, by a 
cannon ball, which had cut off the limb, except a small strip of skin. He 


40 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


was lying on his back, at full length, his right arm straight up in the air, 
rigid as a stake, and his fist tightly clinched. His eyes were wide open, but 
their expression was calm and natural. The shock and the loss of blood, 
doubtless brought death to his relief in a short time. As I stood looking 
at t*he unfortunate boy, I thought of how some poor mother’s heart would 
be well-nigh broken when she heard of the sad, untimely fate of her darling 
son. But, before the war was over, probably thousands of similar cases 
occurred, in both the onion and Confederate armies. 

I believe I will here speak of a notion of mine, to be considered for 
whatever you may think it worth. As you know, I am not a religious man, 
in the theological sense of the term, having never belonged to a church in 
my life. Have just tried, to the best of my ability, to act according to the 
Golden Rule, and let it go at that. But, from my earliest youth, I have had 
a peculiar reverence for Sunday. I hunted much with a gun when a boy, 
and so did the people generally of my neighborhood. Small game in that 
backwoods region was very plentiful, and even deer were not uncommon 
Well, it was a settled conviction with us primitive people that if one went 
hunting on Sunday, he would not only have bad luck in that regard that 
day, but also all the rest of the week. So, when the Confederates began the 
battle on Sunday, I would keep thinking, throughout its entire progress, 
“You fellows started this on Sunday, and you’ll get licked.” I’ll admit that 
there were a few occasions when things looked so awful bad that I became dis¬ 
couraged, but I quickly rallied, and my Sunday superstition—or whatever it 
may be called—was justified in the end. In addition to Shiloh, the battle of 
New Orleans in 1815, Waterloo, and Bull Run, were fought on a Sunday, and 
in each case the attacking party was signally defeated. These results may have 
been mere coincidents, but I don’t think so. I have read somewhere an 
authentic statement that President Lincoln entertained this same belief, 
and always was opposed to aggressive movements, on Sundays, by the Union 
troops. 

The wildest possible rumors got into circulation at home, about some of 
the results of the battle. I have now lying before me an old letter from my 
father of date April 19th, in answer to mine, (which I will mention later), 
giving him the first definite intelligence about our regiment and the neigh¬ 
borhood boys. Among other things he said: “We have had it here that 
Fry’s regiment was all captured that was not killed; pretty much all given 
up as lost. That Beauregard had run you all down a steep place into the 
Tennessee river, * * * That Captain Reddish had his arm shot off, 
that Enoch Wallace was also wounded;”—and here followed the names 
of some others who (the same as Reddish and Wallace,) hadn’t received 
even a scratch. My letter to my father, mentioned above, was dated April 
10, and was received by him on the 18th. It was brief, occupying only about 
four pages of the small, sleazy note paper that we bought in those days of 
the sutlers. I don’t remember why I didn’t write sooner, but it was prob- 
ablv because no mail-boat left the landing until about that time. The old 
mail hack ordinarily arrived at the Otter Creek post-office from the outside 
world an hour or so before sundown, and the evening my letter came, the 
little old post-office and general store was crowded with people intensely 
anxious to hear from their boys, or other relatives in the 61st Illinois. The 
distribution of letters in that office in those times was a proceeding of 
much simplicity. The old clerk who-attended to that would call out in a sten¬ 
torian tone-the name of the addressee of each letter, who, if present would 
respond, “Here!” and then the letter would be given a dexterous flip, and 
went flying to him across the room. But on this occasion there were no let¬ 
ters from the regiment, until just at the last the clerk called my father’s 
name,—“J. O. Stillwell!” and again, still louder, but there was no response. 
Whereupon the clerk held the letter at arm’s length, and carefully scrutinized 
the address. “Well,” said he finally, “this is from Jerry Stillwell’s boy, in 
the 61st, so I reckon he’s not killed, anyhow.” A murmur of excitement 
went through the room at this, and the people crowded up to get a glimpse 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


41 


of even the handwriting of the address. “Yes, that’s from Jerry’s boy, sure,” 
said several. Thereupon William Noble and Joseph Beeman, who were old 
friends of father’s, begged the postmaster to “give them the letter, and 
they would go straight out to Stillwell’s with it, have him read it, and then 
they would come right back with the news.” Everybody seconded the re¬ 
quest, the postmaster acceded, and handed one of them the letter. They 
rushed out, unfastened their horses, and left in a gallop for Stillwell’s two 
miles away, on the south side of Otter Creek, out in the woods. As they 
dashed up to the little old log cabin, they saw my father out near the barn, 
the one with the letter waved it aloft, calling at the top of his voice: “Letter 
from your boy, Jerry!” My mother heard this, and came running from 
the house, trembling with excitement. The letter was at once opened and 
read,—and the terrible reports which to that time had prevailed about the 
fate of Fry’s regiment vanished in the air. It’s true, it contained some 
sad news, but nothing to be compared with the fearful accounts which had 
been rife in the neighborhood. I have that old letter in my possession now. 

Soon after the battle Gov. Richard Yates, of Illinois, Gov. Louis P. Har¬ 
vey of Wisconsin, and many other civilians, came down from the north to 
look after the comfort of me sick and wounded soldiers of their respective 
states. The 16th Wisconsin Infantry was camped next to us, and I learnt 
one afternoon that Gov. Harvey was to make them a speech that evening, 
after dress parade, and I went over to hear him. The Wisconsin regiment 
did not turn out in military formation, just gathered around him in a dense 
group under a grove of trees. The Governor sat on a horse while making 
his speech. He wore a large, broad-brimmed hat, his coat was buttoned to 
the chin, and he had big buckskin gauntlets on his hands. He was a fine 
looking man, heavy set, and about forty-two years old. His remarks were 
not lengthy, but were patriotic and eloquent. I remember especially how he 
complimented the Wisconsin soldiers for their good conduct in battle, that 
their state was proud of them, and that he, as Governor, intended to look 
after them, and care for them to the very best of his ability, as long as he 
was in office, and that when the time came for him to relinquish that trust, 
he would still remember them with interest and the deepest affection. His 
massive frame heaved with the intensity of his feelings as he spoke and he 
impressed me as being absolutely sincere in all that he said. But he little 
knew, nor apprehended the sad and lamentable fate then pending over him. 
Only a few evenings later, as he was crossing the gang-plank between two 
steamboats at the Landing, in some manner he fell from the plank, and was 
sucked under the boats by the current, and drowned. Some days later a 
negro found his body, lodged against some drift near our side of the river, 
and he brought it in his old cart inside our lines. From papers on the 
body, and other evidence, it was conclusively identified as that of Gov. 
Harvey. The remains were shipped back to Wisconsin, where they were 
given a largely attended and impressive funeral. 


CHAPTER V. 


THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. — IN CAMP AT OWL CREEK. — a£RIL AND 

MAY, 1862. 

FEW DAYS after the battle Gen. H. W. Halleck came down from St. 

Louis, and assumed command of the Union forces in the field near 
Pittsburg Landing. Then, or soon thereafter, began the so-called siege of 
Corinth. We mighty near dug up all the country within eight or ten miles 
of that place in the progress of this movement, in the construction of forts, 
long lines of breast-works, and such like. Halleck was a “book-soldier,” 
and had a high reputation during the war as a profound “strategist,” and 
great military genius in general. In fact, in my opinion, (and which, I think', 
is sustained by history), he was a humbug, and a fraud. His idea seemed 
to be that our war should be conducted strictly in accordance with the 
methods of the old. Napoleonic wars of Europe, which, in the main, were not 
at all adapted to our time and conditions. Moreover, he seemed to be total¬ 
ly deficient in sound, practical common sense. Soon after the Confederates 
evacuated Corinth he was transferred to Washington to serve in a sort of 
advisory capacity, and spent the balance of the war period in a swivel-chair 
in an office. He never was in a battle, and never heard a gun fired, except 
distant cannonading during the Corinth business,—and, (maybe,) at Wash¬ 
ington in the summer of 1864. 

During the operations against Corinth, the 61st made some short marches, 
and was shifted around, from time to time, to different places. About the 
middle of May we were sent to a point on Owl creek, in the right rear of the 
main army. Our duty there was to guard against any possible attack from 
that direction, and our main employment was throwing up breast-works and 
standing picket. And all this time the sick list was frightfully large. The 
chief trouble was our old enemy, camp diarrhea, but there were also other 
types of diseases, malaria, and the like. As before stated, the boys had not 
learned how to cook, nor to take proper care of themselves, and to this ig¬ 
norance can be attributed much of the sickness. And the weather was rainy, 
the camps were muddy, and gloomy, and about this time many of the boys 
had home-sickness, bad. A genuine case of downright home-sickness is 
most depressing. I had some touches of it myself, so I can speak from 
exnerience. The poor fellows would sit around in their tents, and whine, and 
talk about home, and what good things they would have there to eat, and 
kindred subjects, until apparently they lost every spark of energy. I kept 
away from such cases all I could, for their talk was demoralizing. But one 
rainy day while in camp at Owl creek I was in our big Sibley tent when 
some of the boys got well started on their pet topics. It was a wretched 
day, the rain was pattering down on the tent, and dripping from the leaves 
of the big oak trees in the camp, while inside the tent everything was damp 
and muddy, and didn’t smell good, either. “Jim,” says one, “I wish I could 
jest be down on Coon crick today, and take dinner with old Bill Williams. 

I tell you what I’d have. First, a great big slice of fried ham, with plenty 
of rich brown gravy, with them light, fluffy, hot biscuits that Bill’s wife 
could cook so well, and then I’d want some big baked Irish ’t.aters, red hot, 
and all mealy, and then” “Yes, Jack,” interrupted Jim. “I’ve et at old 
Bill’s lots of times, and wouldn’t I like to be with you? You know, old Bill 
always mast-fed the hogs he put up for his own eatin,’ they jest fattened on 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 43 


hickory nuts and big white- and burr-oak acorns, and he’d smoke his meat 
with hickory wood smoke, and O! that meat was jest so sweet and nutty- 

like -why, the meat of corn-fed hogs was no where in comparison.” ‘‘Yes, 

Jim,” continued Jack, ‘‘and then I’d want with the biscuits and ’taters plenty 
of that rich yaller butter that Bill’s wife made herself, with her own hands, 
and then you know Bill always had lots of honey, and I’d spread honey and 
butter on one of them biscuits, and”—“And don’t you remember, Jack,” 
chimed in Jim, “the mince pies Bill’s wife could make? They were jest stuf¬ 
fed with reezons, and all manner of goodies, and,”—but here I left the tent, 
in disgust. I wanted to say, “O, hell,” as I went out, but refrained. The 
poor fellows were feeling bad enough, anyhow, and it wouldn’t have helped 
matters to make sarcastic remarks. But I preferred the shelter of a big 
tree, and enduring the rain that filtered through the leaves, rather than listen 
to this distracting talk of Jack and Jim about the flesh-pots of old Bill Wil¬ 
liams. But while on unis subject, I believe I’ll tell you about a royal dinner 
I had myself while the regiment was near Pittsburg Landing. It was a few 
days after the battle, while we were still at our old camp. I was detailed, as 
corporal, to take six men and go to the Landing and load three or* four of 
our regimental wagons with army rations for our regiment. We reached 
the Landing about ten o’clock, reported to the proper officer, who showed 
us our stuff, and we went to piling it into the wagons. It consisted of big slabs 
of fat side-bacon, (“sow-belly”), boxes o'f hardtack, sacks of rice, beans, cof¬ 
fee, sugar, and soap and candles. I had an idea that I ought to help in the 
work, and was trying to do so, altho so weak from illness that it required 
some effort to walk straight. But a big, black haired, black bearded Irish¬ 
man, Owen McGrath, of my company, one of the squad, objected. He laid 
a big hand kindly on my shoulder, and said: “Carparral, yez is not sthrong 
enough for this worrk, and yez don’t have to do it, ayether. Jist give me 
the ’t’ority to shupirintind it, and you go sit down.” “I guess you’re right, 
McGrath;” I answered, and then, in a louder tone, for the benefit of the de¬ 
tail, “McGrath, you see to the loading of the grub. I am feeling a little out 
of sorts,” (which was true,) “and I believe I’ll take a rest.” McGrath was 
about thirty years old, and a splendid soldier. He had served a term in the 
British army in the old country, and was fully onto his present job. (I will 
tell another little story about him later.) I sat down in the shade a short 
distance from my squad, with my back against some big sacks full of some¬ 
thing. Suddenly I detected a pungent, most agreeable smell. It came 
from onions, in the sack behind me. I took out my pocket knife, and stealth¬ 
ily made a hole in that sack, and abstracted two big ones, and slipped them 
into my haversack. My conscience didn’t trouble me a bit over the matter. 
I reckon those onions were hospital goods, but I thought I needed some just 
as much as anybody in a hospital, which was probably correct. I had asked 
Capt. Reddish that morning if, when the wagons were loaded, I could send 
them on to camp, and return at my leisure in the evening, and the kind- 
hearted old man had given a cheerful consent. So, when the teams were 
ready to start back, I told McGrath to take charge, and to see that the stuff 
was delivered to our quartermaster, or the commissary sergeant, and then 
I shifted for myself, planning for the good dinner that was in prospect. 
There were many steamboats lying at the Landing, I selected one that look¬ 
ed inviting, went on board, and sauntered aft to the cook’s quarters. It 
was near dinner time, and the grub dispenser was in the act of taking from 
his oven a number of nice cakes of corn bread. I sidled up to him, and dis¬ 
playing that dime the cavalryman gave me for those apples, asked him m 
a discreetly low tone, if he would let me have a cake of corn bread. He 
gave a friendly grin, pushed a cake towards me, I slipped it in my haver¬ 
sack, and handed him the dime. Now I was fixed. I went ashore, and down 
the river for a short distance to a spring I knew of, that bubbled from the 
ground near the foot of a big beech tree. It did not take long to build a 
little fire and make coffee in my oyster can of a quart’s capacity, with a 
wire bale attachment. Then a slice of sow-belly was toasted on a stick, the 



44 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


outer skin of the onions removed,—and dinner was ready. Talk about your 
gastronomic feasts! I douDt if ever in my life I enjoyed a meal better than 
this one, under that old beech, by the Tennessee river. The onions were 
big red ones, and fearfully strong, but my system craved them so much that 
I just chomped them down as if they were apples. And every crumb of the 
corn bread was eaten, too. Dinner over, I felt better, and roamed around 
the rest of the afternoon, sight-seeing, and didn’t get back to camp till near¬ 
ly sundown. By the way, that spring, and that beech tree, are there yet, 
or were, in October, 1914, when I visited the Shiloh battlefield. I hunted 
them up on this occasion, and laid down on the ground and took a long, big 
drink out of the spring for the sake of old times. 

Taking up again the thread of our life in camp at Owl creek, I will say 
that when there I was for a while in bad physical condition, and nearly “all 
in.” One day I accidentally overheard two intelligent boys of my company 
talking about me, and one said, “If Stillwell aint sent north purty soon, he’s 
goin’ to make a die of it;” to which the other assented. That scared me, 
good, and set me to thinking. I had no use for the hospital, wouldn’t go 
there, and abominated the idea of taking medicine. But I was so bad off 
I was not marked for duty, my time was all my own, so I concluded to get 
out of camp as much as possible, and take long walks in the big woods. I 
found a place down on the creek between two picket post£ where it was 
easy to sneak through, and get out into the country, and I proceeded to take 
advantage of it. It was where a big tree had fallen across the stream, 
making a sort of natural bridge, and I “run the line” there many a time. 

It was delightful to get out into the clean, grand old woods, and away from 
tin mud, and filth, and bad smells, of the camp, and my health began to 
improve. On some of these rambles, Frank Gates, a corporal of my com¬ 
pany, was my companion. He was my senior a few years, a lively fellow, 
with a streak of humor in him, and was good company. One day on one of 
our jaunts we came to a little old log house near the foot of a densely tim¬ 
bered ridge. There was nobody at home save some women and children, 
and one of the women was engaged on an old-fashioned churn, churning but¬ 
ter. Mulberries were ripe, and there was a large tree in the yard fairly 
black with the ripe fruit. We asked the women if we could eat some of 
the berries, and they gave a cheerful consent. Thereupon Frank and I 
climbed the tree, and proceeded to help ourselves. The berries were big, 
dead ripe, and tasted mighty good, and we just stuffed ourseives until we 
could hold no more. The churning was finished by the time we descended 
from the tree, and we asked for some buttermilk. The women gave us a 
gourd dipper and told us to help ourselves, which we did, and drank copiously 
and greedily. We then resumed our stroll, but before long were seized 
with most horrible pains in our stomachs. We laid down on the ground, 
and rolled over and over in agony. It was a hot day, we had been walk¬ 
ing rapidly, and it is probable that the mulberries and the buttermilk were 
in a state of insurrection. But Frank didn’t think so. As he rolled over 
the ground with his hands on his bulging stomach he exclaimed to me, “Lee, 

by --, I believe them - Secesh wimmen have pizened us!” At the time 

I hardly knew what to think,—but relief came at last. I will omit the de¬ 
tails. When able to navigate, we started back to camp, almost as weak and 
helpless as a brace of sick kittens. After that I steered clear of any sort of a 
combination of berries and buttermilk. 

Soon after this Frank and I had another adventure outside the picket 
lines, but of an amusing nature only. We came to an old log house where, 
as was usual at this time and locality, the only occupants were women and chil¬ 
dren. The family consisted of the middle-aged mother, a tall, slab-sided 
long legged girl seemingly sixteen or seventeen years old, and some little 
children. Their surname was Leadbetter, which I have always remembered 1 
by reason of the incident I will mention. The house was a typical pioneer 
cabin, with a puncheon floor, which was uneven, dirty, and splotched with 
grease. The girl was bare-footed, and wearing a dirty white sort of cotton 




THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


45 


gown of the modern Mother Hubbard type, that looked a good deal like 
a big gunny sack. From what came under my observation later, it can safe¬ 
ly be stated that it was the only garment she had on. She really was not bad 
looking, only dirty, and mighty slouchy. We wanted some butter, and ask¬ 
ed the matron if she had any she could sell us. She replied that they were 
just going to churn, and if we’d wait until that was done, she could furnish 
us a little. We waited, and when the job was finished handed the girl a 
pint tin cup we had brought along, which she proceeded to fill with the 
butter. As she walked towards us to hand over the cup, her bare feet slip¬ 
ped on a grease spot on the floor, and down she went on her back, with her 
gown distinctly elevated, and a prodigal display of limbs. At the same time 
the cup fell from her grasp, and the contents rolled out on the dirty floor, 
like melted lard. The girl arose to a sitting posture, surveyed the wreck, 
then laid down on one side, and exploded with laughter—and kicked. About 
•this time her mother appeared on the scene. “Why, Sal Leadbetter!” she 
exclaimed, “you dirty slut! Git a spoon and scrape that butter right up!” 
Sal rose (cow fashion) to her feet, still giggling over the mishap, and the 
butter was duly “scraped” up, restored to the cup, and this time safely 
delivered. We paid for the “dairy product,” and left, but I told Frank i 
wanted none of it in mine. Frank responded in substance, that it was 
all right, every man had to eat his “peck of dirt” in his life time anyway,—. 
and the incident was closed. I never ngain saw, nor heard of, the Lead- 
better family from that day, but have often wondered what finally be¬ 
came of poor “Sal.” 

While we were at Owl creek the medical authorities of the army put hi 
operation a method for the prevention and cure of malaria that was highly 
popular with some of the boys. It consisted of a gill of whisky, largely 
compounded with quinine, and was given to each man before breakfast. 1 
drank my first “jigger,” as it was called, and then quit. It was too intense¬ 
ly bitter for my taste, and i would secretly slip my allowance to John Bar¬ 
ton, or Frank Burnham, who would have drunk it, I reckon, if it had been 
one-half aqua fortis. I happened to be mixed up in an incident rather mor¬ 
tifying to me, when the first whisky rations were brought to the regimental 
hospital in our camp for use in the above manner. The quartermaster came 
to Capt. Reddish and handed him a requisition for two camp kettlefulls of 
whisky, and told him to give it to two non-commissioned officers of his com¬ 
pany, who were strictly temperate and absolutely reliable, and order them to 
go to the Division commissary headquarters, get the whisky, bring it to 
camp, and deliver it to him, the quartermaster. Capt. Reddish selected for this 
delicate duty Corporal Tim Gates, (a brother of Frank, above mentioned,) 
and myself. Tim was about ten years my senior, a tall, slim fellow, and some¬ 
what addicted to stuttering when he became nervous or excited. Well, we 
each procured a big camp kettle, went and got the whisky, and started back 
with it to camp. On the way we passed through a space where a large num¬ 
ber of army wagons were parked, and when we were in about the middle of 
the park were then out of sight of everybody. Here Tim stopped, looked 
carefully around to see if the coast was clear, and then said, “Sti-Sti-Stillwell, 
1-1-less t-t-take a swig!” “All right;” I responded. Thereupon Tim poised'his 
camp kettle on a wagon hub, inclined the brim to his lips, and toon: a most 
copious draught, and I followed suit. We then started on, and it was lucky, 
for me at any rate, that we didn’t have far to go. I hadn’t previously during 
my army career, taken a swallow of whisky since one time at Camp Carroll¬ 
ton; I was weak and feeble, and this big drink of the stuff went through my 
veins like electricity. Its effects were felt almost instantly, and by the 
time we reached camp, and had delivered the whisky, I was feeling a good 
deal like a wild Indian on the war path. I wanted to yell, to get my musket 
and shoot, especially at something that when hit would jingle, a looking- 
glass, an eight-day clock, or a boat’s chandelier, or something similar. But 
it suddenly occurred to me that I was drunk, and liable to forever disgrace 
myself, and everybody at home, too. I had just sense enough left to know 


46 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 

that the thing to do was to get out of camp at Once, so I struck for the woods. 
In passing the tent of my squad, I caught a glimpse of Tim therein. He had 
thrown his cap and jacket on the ground, rolled up his sleeves, and was furi¬ 
ously challenging another fellow to then and there settle an old-time grudge 
by the “ordeal of battle.” I didn’t tarry, but hurried on the best I could, finally* 
got into a secluded patch of brush, and tumbled down. I came to my senses 
along late in the evening, with a splitting headache, and feeling awful gen¬ 
erally, but reasonably sober. 

And such was the conduct, when trusted with whisky, of the two non¬ 
commissioned officers of Co. D, “men who were strictly tefiiperate, and ab¬ 
solutely reliable.” But Tim had no trouble about his break. I suppose he 
gave some plausible explanation, and as for me, I had lived up to the stand¬ 
ard, so far as the public knew, and maintained a profound silence in regard 
to the episode. Tim and I in private conversation, or otherwise, both care¬ 
fully avoided the subject until the time came when we could talk and laugh 
about it, without any danger of “tarnishing our escutcheons.” 

In the meantime the alleged siege of Corinth was proceeding in the leis¬ 
urely manner that characterized the progress of a suit in chancery under 
the ancient equity methods. From our camp on Owl creek we could hear, 
from time to time, sporadic outbursts of cannonading, but we becapie so ac¬ 
customed to it that the artillery practice ceased to excite any special at¬ 
tention. The Confederates began quietly evacuating the place during the 
last days of May, completed the operation on the 30th of the month, and 
on the evening of that day our troops marched into the town unopposed. 









CHAPTER VI. 


BETHEL—JACKSON—JUNE AND JULY, 1862. 

S OON AFTER our occupation of Corinth a change in the position of our 
forces took place, and all the command at Owl creek was transferred to 
Bethel, a small station on the Mobile and Ohio railroad, some twenty or twen¬ 
ty-five miles to the northwest. We left Owl creek on the morning of June 
6th, and arrived at Bethel about dark the same evening. Thanks to my re¬ 
peated long walks in the woods outside of our lines, I was in pretty fair 
health at this time, but still somewhat weak and shaky. On the morning 
we took up the line of march, while waiting for the “fall in” call, I was seat¬ 
ed at the foot of a big tree in camp, with my knapsack, packed, at my side. 
Enoch Wallace came to me and said: “Stillwell, are you going to try to car¬ 
ry your knapsack?” I answered that I reckoned I had to, that I had asked 
Hen. King, (our company teamster,), to let me put it in his wagon, and he 
wouldn’t,—said he already had too big a load. Enoch said nothing more, but 
stood silently looking down at me a few seconds, then picked up my knap¬ 
sack, and threw it into our wagon, which was close by, saying to King, as 

he did so, “Haul that knapsack;” - and it was hauled. I shall never 

forget this act of kindness on the part of Enoch. It would have been im¬ 
possible for me to have made the march, carrying the knapsack. The day 
was hot, and much of the road was over sandy land, and through long 
stretches of black-jack barrens, that excluded every breath of a breeze. The 
men suffered much on the march, and fell out by scores. When we stacked 
arms at Bethel that evening, there were only Jour men of Co. D in line, jusr. 
enough to make one stack of guns,—but my gun was in the stacK. 

There was no earthly necessity for making this march in one day. We 
were simply “changing stations;” the Confederate army of that region was 
down in Mississippi, a hundred miles or so away, and there were no armed 
foes in our vicinity excepting some skulking bands of guerrillas. Prior to 
this our regiment had made no marches, except little short movements dur¬ 
ing the siege of Corinth, none of which exceeded two or three miles. And 
nearly all the men were weak and debilitated by reason of the prevailing 
type of illness, and in no condition whatever to be cracked tnrougn twenty 
miles or more on a hot day. We should have marched only about ten miles 
the first day, with a halt of about ten minutes every hour, to let the men 
rest a little, and get their wind. Had that course been pursued, we would 
have reached our destination in good shape, with the ranks full, and the men 
would have been benefited by the march. As it was, it probably caused the 
dea’h of some, and the permanent disabling of more. The trouble at that 
time was the total want of experience on the part of the most of our of¬ 
ficers of all grades, combined with an amazing lack of common sense by 
some of high authority. I am not blaming any of our regimental officers for 
this foolish “forced march,”—for it amounted to that,- the responsibility 
rested higher up. 

Our stay at Bethel was brief and uneventful. However, I shall always 
remember the place on account of a piece of news that came to me while we 
were there, and which for a time nearly broke me all up. It will be 
necessary to go back some years in order to explain it. I began at¬ 
tending the old Stone school house at Otter creek when I was about eight 
years old. One of my schoolmates was a remarkable pretty little girl, with 

47 


48 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER, 


blue eyes and auburn hair, nearly my own age. We kept about tne same 
place in our studies, and were generally in the same classes. I always liked 
her, and by the time I was about fifteen years old was head over heels in 
love. She was far above me in the social scale of the neighborhood. Her 
folks lived in a frame house, on “the other side of the creek,” and were well- 
to do, for that time and locality. My people lived in a log cabin, on a lit¬ 
tle farm in the broken country that extended from the south bank of Otter 
creek to the Mississippi and Illinois rivers. But notwithstanding the differ¬ 
ence in our respective social and financial positions, I knew that she had a 
liking for me, and our mutual relations became quite “tender” and interest¬ 
ing. Then the war came along, I enlisted, and went South. We had no 
correspondence after I left home; I was just too deplorably bashful to at¬ 
tempt it, and, on general principles didn’t have sense enough to properly 
carry on a proceeding of that nature. It may me that here was where I fell 
down. But I thought aoout her every day, and had many boyish day dreams 
of the future, in which she was the prominent figure. Soon after our arrival 
at Bethel I received a letter from home. I hurriedly opened it, 
anxious, as usual, to hear from the folks, and sitting down at the foot of a 
tree began reading it. All went vrell to nearly the close, when I read these 
fatal words: 

“Billy Crane and Lucy Archer got married last week.” 

The above names are fictitious, but the bride was my girl. 

I can’t explain my feelings,—if you have ever had such an experience, 
you will understand. I stole a hurried glance around to see if anybody was 
observing my demeanor, then thrust the letter into my jacket pocket, and 
walked away. Not far from our camp was a stretch of swampy land, thickly 
set with big cypress trees, and I bent my steps in that direction. Enterin': 
the forest I sought a secluded spot, sat down on an old log, and read, and 
re-read, that heart-breaking piece of intelligence. There was no mistaking 
the words; they were plain, laconic, and nothing ambiguous about them. 
And, to intensify the bitterness of the draught, it may be set down here that 
the groom was a dudish young squirt, a clerk in a country store, who lacked 
the pluck to go for a soldier, byt had stayed at home to count eggs and meas 
ure calico. In my opinion, he was not worthy of the girl, and I was amazed 
that she had taken him for a husband. I remember well some of mv 
thoughts as I sat with bitterness in my heart, alone among tnose gloomy 
cypresses. I wanted a great big battle to come off at once, with the 61 st 
Illinois right in front, that we might run out of cartridges, and the order 
would be given to fix bayonets, and charge! Like Major Simon Suggs, in de¬ 
picting the horrors of an apprehended Indian war, I wanted to see blood 
flow in a “great gulgin’ torrent, like the Tallapoosa river.” Well, it was 
simply a case of pure, intensely ardent boy-love, and I was hit, hard,—but 
survived. And I now heartily congratulate myself on the fact that this 
youthful shipwreck ultimately resulted in my obtaining for a wife the 
very best woman, (excepting only my mother,) that I ever knew in my life 
I never again met my youthful flame, to speak to her, and saw her 
only once, and then at a distance, some years after the close of the war 
when I was back in Illinois on a visit to my parents. Several years ago her 
husband died, and in course of time she married again, this time a man I 
never knew, and the last I heard of, or concerning her, she and her second 
husband were living somewhere in one of the Rocky Mountain States 

For a short time after the evacuation of Corinth, Pittsburg Landing con¬ 
tinued to be our base of supplies, and commissary stores were waggoned 
from there to the various places where our troops were stationed And it 
happened, while the regiment was at Bethel, that I was one of a partv of 
about a hundred men detailed to serve as guards for a wagon train destined 
to the Landing, and return to Bethel, with army rations. There was at 
the Landing at this time, serving as guards for the government stores a reg¬ 
iment of infantry. There were only a few of them visible, and they’looked 
pale and emanciated, and much like “dead men on their feet ” I asked one 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


49 


of them what regiment was stationed there, and he told me it was the 14th 
Wisconsin Infantry. This was the one I saw at Benton Barracks and ad¬ 
mired so much on account of the splendid appearance of the men. I men¬ 
tioned this to the soldier, and expressed to him my surprise to now see them 
in such bad shape. He went on to tell me that the men had suffered fear¬ 
fully from the change of climate, the water, and their altered conditions in 
general. That they had nearly all been prostrated by camp diarrhea, and at 
that time there were not more than a hundred men in the regiment 
fit for duty, and even those were not much better than shadows of their 
former selves. And, judging from the few men that were visible, the sol¬ 
dier told the plain, unvarnished truth. Our regiment and the 14th Wisconsin 
soon drifted apart, and I never saw it again. 

On June 16 our brigade left Bethel for Jackson, Tennessee, a town on 
the Mobile and Ohio railroad, and about thirty-five or forty miles, by the dirt 
road, northwest of Bethel. On this march, like the preceding one, I did not 
carry my knapsack. It was about this time that the most of the boys adopted 
the “blanket-roll” system. Our knapsacks were awkward, cumbersome 
things, with a combination of straps and buckles that chafed the shoulders 
and back, and greatly augmented heat, and general discomfort. So we would 
fold in our blankets an extra shirt, with a few other light articles, roll the 
blanket tight, double it over, and tie the two ends together, then throw the 
blanket over one shoulder, with the tied ends under the opposite arm—and 
the arrangement was complete. We had learnt by this time the necessity of 
reducing our personal baggage to the lightest possible limit. We had left 
Camp Carrollton with great bulging knapsacks, stuffed with all sorts of plund¬ 
er, much of which was utterly useless to soldiers in the field. But we soon 
got rid of all that. And my recollection is that after the Bethel march the 
great majority of the men would, in some way, when on a march, tempor¬ 
arily lay aside their knapsacks, and use the blanket roll. The exceptions to 
that method, in the main, were the soldiers of foreign birth, especially the 
Germans. They carried theirs to the last, on all occasions, with everything 
in them the army regulations would permit, and usually something more. 

Jackson, our objective point on this march, was the county seat of Mad¬ 
ison county, and a portion of our line of march was through the south part 
of the county. This region had a singular interest for me, the nature of which 
I will now state. Among the few books we had at home was an old, paper- 
covered cony, with horrible wood-cuts, of a work entitled,’’The Life and Adven-' 
tures of John A. Murrell, the Great Western Land Pirate,” by Virgil A. 
Stewart. It was full o* accounts of cold-blooded, depraved murders, and other 
vicious, unlawful doings. My father had known, in his younger days, a good 
deal of Murrell by reputation, which was probably the moving cause for his 
purchase of the book. When a little chap I frequently read it and it possess¬ 
ed for me a sort of weird, uncanny fascination. Murrell’s home, and 
the theater of many of his evil deeds, during the year 1834, and for some¬ 
time previously, was in this county of Madison, and, as we trudged along the 
road on this march I scanned all the surroundings with deep interest and 
close attention. Much of the country was rough and broken, and densely 
wooded, with high ridges and deep ravines between them. With the aid of 
a lively imagination, many places I noticed seemed like fitting localities for 
acts of violence and crime. 

I have in my possession now a duplicate of that old copy of Murrell we 
had at home,—which I bought many years ago. I sometimes look into it, 
but it no longer possesses for me the interest it did in my boyhood days. 

On this march I was a participant in an incident which was somewhat 
amusing, and also a little bit irritating. Shortly before noon on the first 
dav. Jack Medford, of my company, and myself, concluded we would “strag- 
alp,” and try and get a country dinner. Availing ourselves of the first 
favorable opnortunity, we slipped from the ranks, and struck out. We fol¬ 
lowed an old country road that ran substantially parallel to the main road 
on which the column was marching, and soon came to a nice looking old 


50 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


log house standing in a grove of big native trees. The only people at the 
house were two middle-aged women and some children. We asked the wo¬ 
men if we could have some dinner, saying that we would pay for it. They 
gave an affirmative answer, but their tone was not cordial and they looked 
“daggers.” Dinner was just about prepared, and when all was ready, we 
were invited, with evident coolness, to take seats at the table. We had 
a splendid meal consisting of corn bread, new Irish potatoes, boiled bacon 
and greens, butter, and buttermilk. Compared with sow-belly and hardtack, 
it was a feast. Dinner over, we essayed to pay therefor. Their charge was 
something less than a dollar for both of us, but we had not the exact change. 
The smallest denomination of money either of us had was a dollar green¬ 
back, and the women said that they had no money at all to make change. 
Thereupon we proffered them the entire dollar. They looked at it askance, 
and asked if we had any “Southern,” or Confederate money. We said we 
had not, that this was the only kind of money we had. They continued to 
look exceedingly sour, and finally remarked that they were unwilling to ac¬ 
cept any kind of money except “Southern.” We urged them to accept the 
bill, told them it was United States’ money, and that it would pass readily 
in any place in the South occupied by our soldiers; but no, they were ob¬ 
durate, and declined the greenback with unmistakable scorn. Of course we 
kept our temper; it never would have done to be saucy or rude after getting 
such a good dinner, but, for my part, I felt considerably vexed. But there 
was nothing left to do except thank them heartily for their kindness, and 
depart. From their standpoint their course in the matter was actuated by 
the highest and most unselfish patriotism, but naturally we couldn’t look at 
it in that light. I will say here, “with malice towards none, and with char¬ 
ity for all,” that in my entire sojourn in the South during the war, the wo¬ 
men were found to be more intensely bitter and malignant against the old 
government of the United States, and the national cause in general, than 
were the men. Their attitude is probably another illustration of the truth 
of Kinling’s saying, “The female of the species is more deadly than the 
male.” 

We arrived at Jackson on the evening of June 17, and went into camp 
in the outskirts of the town, in a beautiful grove of tall young oaks. The 
site was neither too shady nor too sunny, and, all things considered, I think 
it was about the nicest camping ground the regiment had during its entire 
service. We settled down here to a daily round of battalion drill, being the 
first of that character, as I now remember, we had so far had. A battalion 
drill is simply one where the various companies are handled as a regimental 
unit, and are put through regimental evolutions. Battalion drill, at first, 
was frequently very embarrassing to some commanding officers of com¬ 
panies. The regimental commander would give a command, indicating, in 
general terms, the movement desired, and it was then the duty of a com¬ 
pany commander to see to the details of the movement that his company 
should make, and give the proper orders. Well, sometimes he would bo 
badly stumped, and ludicrous “bobbles” would be the result. As for the me-, 
in the ranks, battalion drill was as simple as any other, for we only had to 
obey specific commands which indicated exactly what we were to do. To 
“form square,” an antique disposition against cavalry, was a movement that 
was especially “trying” to some company officers. But so far as fornv'ng 
square was concerned, ah our drill on that feature was time thrown away. 
In actual battle we never made that disposition a single jtime—and the same 
is true of several other labored and intricate movements prescribed in the 
tactics, and in which we were industriously put through. But it was good 
exercise, and “all went in the day’s work.” 

While thus amusing ourselves at battalion drill suddenly came march¬ 
ing orders, and which required immediate execution. Tents were forth¬ 
with struck, rolled and tied, and loaded in the wagons, with all other camp 
and garrison equipage. Our knapsacks were packed with all our effects, 
since special instructions had been given on that matter. Curiosity was on 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


51 


the qui vive to know where we were going, but apart from the fact that we 
were to be transported on the cars, apparently nobody knew whither we were 
bound. Col. Fry was absent, sick, and Major Ohr was then in command of 
the regiment. He was a fine officer, and, withal, a very sensible man, and 
I doubt if any one in the regiment except himself had reliable knowledge as 
to our ultimate destination. As soon as our marching preparations were 
complete, which did not take long, the bugle sounded “Fall in!” and the 
regiment formed in line on the parade ground. In my “mind’s eye” I can 
now see Maj. Ohr in our front, on his horse, his blanket strapped behind his 
saddle, smoking his little briar root pipe, and looking as cool and uncon¬ 
cerned as if we were only going a few miles for a change of camp. Our 
entire brigade fell in, and so far as we could see, or learn, all of the di¬ 
vision at Jackson, then under the command of Gen. John A. McClernand, was 
doing likewise. Well, we stood there in line, at ordered arms, and waited. 
We expected, every moment, to hear the orders which would put us in mo¬ 
tion—but they were never given. Finally we were ordered to stack arms 
and break ranks, but were cautioned to hold ourselves in readiness to fall in 
at the tap of the drum. But the day wore on, and nothing was done until 
late in the evening, when the summons came. We rushed to the gun stacks 
and took arms. The Major had a brief talk with the company officers, and 
then, to our great surprise, the companies were marched back to their dis¬ 
mantled camps, and after being instructed to stay close thereto, were dis¬ 
missed. This state of affairs lasted for at least two days, ana then collap¬ 
sed. We were told that the orders had been countermanded, we unloaded 
our tents, pitched them again on the old sites, and resumed battalion drill. 
It was then gossiped around among the boys that we actually had been 
under marching orders for Virginia, to reinforce the army of the Potomac! 
Personally I looked on that as mere “camp talk,” and put no confidence m 
it, and never found out. until about fifteen years later, that this rumor was 
a fact. I learnt it in this wise: About nine years after the close of the war, 
Congress nassed an act providing for the publication, in book form, of all 
the records, reports, correspondence, and the like, of both the Union and 
Confederate armies. Under this law, about one hundred and thirty large 
volumes were published, containing the matter above stated. When the law 
was passed I managed to arrange to procure a set of these Records, and 
thev were sent to me from Washington as fast as printed. And from one 
of these volumes I ascertained that on June 28, 1862, E. M. Sianton, the 
Secretary of War, had telegraphed Gen. Halleck, (who was then in com¬ 
mand of the western armies), as follows: 

“It is absolutely necessary for you immediatelv to detach 25,000 
of your force, and send it by the nearest and quickest route by way 
of Baltimore and Washington to Richmond. TThis) is rendered im¬ 
perative by a serious reverse suffered by Gen. McClellan before Rich¬ 
mond vesterdav. the full extent of which is not known.” (Rebellion 
Records. Series 1, Vol. 16. Part 2. on. 69 and 70.) 

Tn obedience to the above, General Halleck wired General McClernand on 
June 30 as follows: 

“You will collect as rapidly as possible all the infantry regi¬ 
ments of your division, and take advantage of every train to trans¬ 
port them to Columbus [Ky.] and thence to Washington City.” (Id. 

P. 76.) 

r*nt, that same dav (June 30) a telegram was sent by President Lincoln to 
Gen. Halleck, which operated to revoke the foregoing order of Stanton’s- 
and so the 61st Illinois never became a part of the army of tiie Potomac, 
and for which I am very thankful. That army was composed of brave men. 
and thev fought long and well, but, in my opinion, and which I think is 
sustained bv history, they never had a competent commander until thev 
got U. S. Grant. So. up to the coming of Grant, their record, in the main, 
was a series of bloody disasters, and their few victories, like Ant.ietam and 
Gettysburg, were not properly and energetically followed up as they should 


52 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


have been, and hence were largely barren of adequate results. Considering 
these things I have always somehow “felt it in my bones” that if Mr. Lin¬ 
coln had not sent the brief telegram above mentioned, I would now be 
sleeping in some (probably) unmarked and unknown grave away back :'n 
old Virginia. 

While at Jackson an incident occurred while I was on picket in which 
Owen McGrath, the big Irishman I have previously mentioned, played an 
interesting part. As corporal I had three men under me, McGrath being one, 

other two were a couple of big, burly young fellows belonging to Co. A. 
Our post was on the railroad a mile or two from the outskirts of Jackson, 
and where the picket line for some distance ran practically parallel with the 
railroad. The spot at this post where the picket stood when on guard was 
at the top of a bank on the summit of a slight elevation, just at the edge of 
a deep and narrow railroad cut. A bunch of guerrillas had recently been 
operating in that locality, and making mischief on a small scale, and our 
orders were to be vigilant and on the alert, especially at night. McGrath 
was on duty from 6 to 8 in the evening, and at the latter hour I notified one 
of the Co. A men that his turn had come. The weather was bad, a high 
wind Was blowing, accompanied by a drizzling rain and all signs portended 
a stormy night. The Co. A fellow buckled on his cartridge box. nicked un 
his musket, and gave a scowling glance at the surroundings. Then, with 
much nrofanitv. he declared that he wasn’t going to stand un on that bang, 
he was going down into the cut where he could have some shelter from the 
wind and rain. I told him that would never do. that there he could sop 
nothing in our front, and might as well not be on guard at all. But he Inudlv 
announced his intention to stick to his purpose. The other Co. A man 
chimed in, and with many expletives declared that Bill was right, that he 
intended to stand in the cut too when his time came, that he didn’t believe 
there was a Secesh within a hundred miles of us, anyway, and so on. I w>s 
sorely troubled, and didn’t know what to do. They were big. hulking fel¬ 
lows. and either could have just, smashed me, with one hand tied behind him. 
McGrath had been intently listening to the conversation, and saving nothin, 
but, as matters were evidently nearing a crisis, he now took a hand. Walk¬ 
ing un to the man who was to relieve him, he laid the forefinger of his 
right hand on the fellow’s breast, and looking him square in the eyes, s^oke 
thus: 

“It’s the ar-r-dhers of the car-r-parral that the sintry stand here.” (in¬ 
dicating,) “and the car-r-parral’s ar-r-dhers will be obeyed. D’ye moind that, 
now?” 

I had stepped to the side of McGrath while he was talking, to ^'vp him 
mv moral support, at least, and fixed mv eyes on the mutineer. He look¬ 
ed at us in silence a second or two, and then, with some muttering about 
the corporal being awful particular, finally said he could stand it if the 
rest could, assumed his post at the top of the bank, and the matter was 
ended. The storm blew over before midnight and the weather cleared 
up. In the morning we had a satisfying soldier breakfast, and when rplieved 
at 9 o’clock marched back to camp with the old guard, all in good burner 
and with “peace and harmony prevailing.” But I always felt profoundly 
grateful to grand old McGrath for his staunch support on the foregoing oc¬ 
casion; without it, I don’t know what could have been done. 


CHAPTER VII. 


BOLIVAR.—JULY, AUGUST, ANO SEPTEMBER, 1862. 

© N JULY 17 our brigade, then under the command of Gen. L. F. Ross, left 
Jackson for Bolivar, Tennessee, a town about twenty-eight miles south¬ 
west of Jackson, on what was then called the Mississippi Central Railroad. 

(Here I will observe that the sketch of the regiment before mentioned in the 

Illinois Adjutant General’s Reports is wrong as to the date of our departure 
from Jackson. It is inferable from the statement in the Reports that the 
time was June 17, which really was the date of our arrival there from 
Bethel.) We started from Jackson at about four o’clock in the morning, but 

marched only about eight miles when we were brought to an abrupt halt, 

caused by the breaking down, under the weight of a cannon and its carriage, 
of an ancient Tennesse bridge over a little stream. The nature of the cross¬ 
ing was such that the bridge simply had to be rebuilt, and made strong 
enough to sustain the artillery and army wagons, and it took the balance 
of the day to do it. We therefore bivouacked at the point where we stop¬ 
ped until the next morning. Soon after the halt a hard rain began falling, 
and lasted all afternoon. We had no shelter, and just had to take it, and 
“let it rain.” But it was in the middle of the summer, the weather was hot, 
and the boys stood around, some crowing like chickens, and others quacking 
like ducks, and really seemed to rather enjoy the situation. About the only 
drawback resulting from our being caught out in the summer rains was the 
fact that the water would rust our muskets. In our time we were required 
to keep all their metal parts (except the butt-plate) as bright and shining 
as new silver dollars. I have put in many an hour working on my gun with 
an old rag and powdered dirt, and a corncob, or pine stick, polishing the bar¬ 
rel, the bands, lock-plate, and trigger-guard, until they were fit to pass in¬ 
spection. The inside of the barrel we would keep clean by the use of a 
greased wiper^, and plenty of hot water. In doing this, we would ordinarilv, 
w'th our screw-drivers, take the gun to pieces, and remove from the stock 
all metallic parts. I never had any head for machinery, of any kind, but, 
from sheer necessity, did acquire enough of the faculty to take apart, and put 
together, an army musket,—and that is about the full extent of mv ability 
in that line. We soon learnt to take care of our pieces in a rain by thorough- 
lv greasing them with a piece of bacon, which would largely prevent rust 
from striking in. 

We resumed our march to Bolivar early in the morning of the 18th. Our 
route was practically parallel with the railroad, crossing it occasionally. At 
one of these crossings, late in the afternoon, and when only five or six miles 
from Bolivar, I “straggled” again, and took to the railroad. I soon fell in 
with three Co. C boys, who had done likewise. We concluded we would en¬ 
deavor to get a country supper, and with that in view, an hour or so before 
sundown went to a nice looking farm-house not far from the railroad, and 
made our wants known to the occupants. We had selected for our spokes¬ 
man the oldest one of our bunch, a soldier perhaps twentv-five years old. 
named Aleck Cope. He was something over six feet tall, and about as gaunt 
ns a sand-hill crane. He was bare-footed, and his feet, in color and general 
appearance, looked a good deal like the flappers of an alligator. His entire 
garb, on this occasion, consisted of an old wool hat and his government shirt 
and drawers. The latter garment, like the “cuttie sark” of witch Nannie in 

53 


54 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


Tam O’Shanter, “in longitude was sorely scanty,” coming only a little be¬ 
low his knees, and both habiliments would have been much improved by a 
thorough washing. But, in the duty assigned him he acquitted himself well 
with the people of the house, and they very cheerfully said they would pre¬ 
pare us a supper. They seemingly were well-to-do, as several colored men 
and women were about the premises, who, of course, were slaves. Soon 
were audible the death squawks of chickens in the barn-yard, which we heard 
with much satisfaction. In due time supper was announced, and we seated 
ourselves at the table. And what a banquet we had! Fried chicken, nice 
hot biscuits, butter, butter-milk, honey, (think of that!), preserved peaches, 
fresh cucumber pickles,—and so forth. And a colored house-girl moved back 
and forth behind us, keeping off the flies with a big peacock-feather brush. 
Aleck Cope sat opposite me, and when the girl was performing that office 
for him, the situation looked so intensely ludicrous that I wanted to scream, 
funner over, we paid the bill, which was quite reasonable, and went on our 
wav rejoicing, and reached Bolivar soon after dark, about the same time 
the regiment did. But it will now be set down that this was the last oc¬ 
casion when I “straggled” on a march. A day or so after arriving at Boli¬ 
var the word came to me m some wav, I think from Enoch Wallace, that our 
first lieutenant, Dan Keeley, had spoken disapprovingly of my conduct in that 
regard.* He was a young man, about twenty five years old, of education and 
refinement, and all things considered, the best company officer we had. I 
was much attached to him, and I know that he liked me. Well, I learnt that 
he had said, in substance, that a non-commissioned officer should set a good 
example to the men in all things, and that he hadn’t expected of Stillwell that 
he would desert the ranks on a march. That settled the matter. My conduct 
had simply been thoughtless, without any shirking intentions, but I then 
realized that it was wrong, and, as already stated, straggled no more. 

We went into camp at Bolivar a little south of the town, in a grove of 
scattered big oak trees. A few days after our arrival a good-sized body of 
Confederate cavalry under; the command of Gen. Frank C. Armstrong, moved 
un from the south, and began operating near Bolivar, and vicinity. Our force 
there was comparatively small, and, according to history, we were, for a 
time, in considerable danger of being “gobbled up,” but of that we common 
soldiers knew nothing. Large details were at once put to work throwing up 
breast-works, while the men not on that duty were kept in line of battle, or, 
with their guns in stack on the line, and strictly cautioned to remain close 
at hand, and ready to fall in at the tap of a drum. This state of things 
continued for some days, then the trouble would seemingly blow over, and 
later would break out again. While we were thus on the ragged edge, and 
expecting a battle almost any hour, a little incident occurred which some¬ 
how made on me a deep and peculiar impression. To explain it fully, I must 
go back to our first days at Pittsburg Landing. A day or two after our ar¬ 
rival there, Lt. Keeley said to me that the regimental color guard, to consist 
of a sergeant and eight corporals, was being formed, that Co. D had been 
called on for a corporal for that duty, and that I should report to Maj. Ohr 
for instructions. Naturally I felt quite proud over this, and forthwith reported 
to the Major, at his tent, and stated my business. He looked at me in sil¬ 
ence, and closely, for a few seconds, and then remarked, in substance, that 
I could go to my quarters, and if needed, would be notified later. This nuz¬ 
zled me somewhat, but I supposed it would come out all right in due time. 
There was a corporal in our company to whom I will give a fictitious name, 
and call him Sam Cobb. He was a big, fine looking fellow, and somewhere 
between twenty-five and thirty years old. And an hour or two after mv dis¬ 
missal by Maj. Ohr, I heard Sam loudly proclaiming, with many fierce 
oaths, to a little group of Co. D boys, that he “had been promoted.” That 

he was a “color corporal, by -!” This announcement was accomnanied 

by sundry vociferous statements in regard to Maj. Ohr knowing exactly the 
kind of men to get to guard the colors of the regiment in time of battle, and 
so on, and so on. I heard all this with mortification, and bitterness of spirit. 




THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


55 


The reason now dawned on me why I had been rejected. I was only a boy, 
rather small for my age, and, at this time feeble in appearance. Maj. Ohr, 
quite properly, wanted strong, stalwart, fine looking men for the color guard. 
A little reflection convinced me that he was right, and could not be blamed 
for his action. But he found out later, (in this particular case, at least), that 
something more than a fine appearance was required to make a soldier. 
Only two or three days after Sam’s “promotion,” came the battle of Shiloh, 
and at the very first volley the regiment received, he threw down his gun, 
and ran like a whipped cur. The straps and buckles of his cartridge box 
were new and stiff, so he didn’t take the time to release them in the ordi¬ 
nary way, but whipped out his jack-knife and cut them as he ran. I did 
not see this personally, but was told it by boys who did. We saw no more of 
Sam until after the battle, when he sneaked into camp, with a fantastic story 
of getting separated from the regiment in a fail-back movement, that he 
then joined another, fought both days, and performed prodigies of valor. 
But there were too many that saw the manner of his alleged “separation” for 
his story everj to ^»e believed. 

I will now’ return to the Bolivar incident. While the Confederates were 
operating in the vicinity of this place, as above mentioned, the fall in call 
was sounded one evening after dark, and the regiment promptly formed in 
line on the parade ground. We remained there an hour or so, when finally 
the command was given to stack arms, and the men were dismissed with 
orders to hold themselves in readiness to form in line, on the parade grounds, 
at a moment’s warning. As I was walking back to our company quarters, Sam 
Cobb stepped up to me and took me to one side, under the shadow of a tall 
oak tree. It was a bright moonlight night, with some big, fleecy clouds «n 
the sky. “Stillwell,” asked Sam, “do you think we are going to have a fight?” 
“I don’t know, Sam,” I answered, “but it looks very much like it. I reckon 
Gen. Ross is not going out to hunt a fight; he prefers to stay here, protect 
the government stores, and fight on the defensive. If our cavalry can stand 
the rebs off, then maybe they will let us alone,—but if our cavalry are driven 
in, then look out!” Sam held his head down, and said nothing. As above 
stated, he was a grown man, and I was only a boy, but the thing that was 
troubling him was apparent from his demeanor, and I felt sorry for him. 
I laid a hand kindly on his shoulder, and said, “And Sam, if we should have 
a fight, now try, old fellow, and do better than you did before.” He looked up 
quickly—at that instant the moon passed from behind a big cloud and shone 
through a rift in the branches of the tree, full in his face,—which was as pale 
as death, and he said, in a broken voice: “Stillwell, I’ll run; I just know I’ll 
run,—by God, I can’t help it.” I deeply pitied the poor fellow, and talked 
to him a few minutes, in the kindest manner possible, trying to reason him 
out of that sort of a feeling. But his case was hopeless. He was a genial, 
kind-hearted man, but simply a constitutional coward, and he doubtless told 
the truth when he said, “he couldn’t help it.” In the very next fight we were in, 
he verified his prediction. I may say something about that further on. 

Since leaving Camp Carrollton Co. D had lost two sergeants, one by 
death from sickness, the other by discharge for disability, so while we were 
at Bolivar, these vacancies were filled by appointments made by Maj. Ohr, 
who was then commanding the regiment. In accordance with the custom in 
such matters, the appointments were announced in orders, which were read 
on dress parade. As I now write, it is a little over fifty-four years since this 
event took place, but even now my heart beats faster as the fact is recalled 
that as the adjutant read the list, there came the name “Corporal Leander 
Stillwell, Co. D, to be 4tn Sergeant.” 

In the early part of August, 1862, while our regiment was at Bolivar, I 
cast my first vote, which was an illegal one, as then I was not quite nineteen 
years old. The circumstances connected with my voting are not lengthy, so 
the story will be told. In the fall of 1861 the voters of the state of Illinois 
elected delegates to a Constitutional Convention, to frame and submit to 
the people a new Constitution. A majority of the delegates so elected were 


I 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


56 


Democrats, so they prepared a Constitution in accordance with their political 
views. It therefore became a party measure, the Democrats supporting, and 
the Republicans opposing it. By virtue of some legal enactment all Illinois 
soldiers in the field, who were lawful voters, were authorized to vote on the 
question of the adoption of the proposed constitution, and so, on the day 
above indicated the election for this purpose was held in our regiment. 
An election board was duly appointed consisting of commissioned of¬ 
ficers of the regiment; they fixed up under a big tree some hardtack 
boxes to serve for a table, and the proceedings began. I had no 
intention of voting, as I knew I had not the legal right, but Enoch 
Wallace came to me and suggested that I go up and vote. When 
I said I was not old enough, he simply laughed, and took me by the 
arm and marched me to the voting place. The manner of voting was by 
word of mouth, the soldier gave his name, and stated that he was “For,” or. 
“Against” the constitution, as the case might be, and his vote was recorded. 
I voted “Against,” and started away, no questions being asked me as to my 
age. But before getting out of hearing I heard one of the bojard say, some¬ 
what sotto voce, “That’s a mighty young looking voter.’ Capt. Ihrie, of Co. 
C, also on the board, responded carelessly, in the same tone, “O, well, it’s 
all right, he’s a dam good soldier.” That remark puffed me away up, and al¬ 
most made me feel as if I had grown maybe three feet, or more, in as many 
seconds, and needed only a fierce mustache to be a match for one of Na¬ 
poleon’s Old Guard. And my vote was not the same as Ihrie’s, either, as he 
was a Democrat, and supporting the new constitution. When the regiment 
was recruited it was Democratic by a large majority, but under the enlight¬ 
ening experiences of the war it had become Republican, and out of a total 
vote of about two hundred and fifty, it gave a majority against the new con¬ 
stitution of twenty-five. The final result was that the proposed constitution 
was beaten by the “home vote” alone, which gave something over 16,- 
000 majority against it. Consequently the soldier vote, (although heavily 
against the measure), cut no figure, as it was not needed, and my illegal 
exercise of the right of suffrage did neither good nor harm;—and the inci¬ 
dent has long since been barred by the statute of limitations. 

During the latter part of July, and throughout August and September, 
things were lively and exciting at Bolivar, and in that region generally. 
There was a sort of feeling of trouble in the air most of the time. Gen. Grant 
was in command in this military district, and he has stated in his Memoirs 
that the “most anxious” period of the war, to him, was, practically, during 
the time above stated. But we common soldiers were not troubled with anv 
such feeling. We were devoid of all responsibility, except simply to look 
out for, and take care of, ourselves, and do our duty to the best of our ability. 
And, speaking for myself, I will say that this condition was one that was 
very “full of comfort.” We had no planning, nor thinking, to do, and the 
world could just wag as it willed. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


BOLIVAR.—THE MOVEMENT TO THE VICINITY OF IUKA, MISSISSIPPI. 

—SEPTEMBER-DECEMBER, 1862. 

(7^) N SEPTEMBER 16, the regiment, (with the rest of our brigade,) left 
v ^ / Bolivar, on the cars, went to Jackson, and thence to Corinth, Mississippi, 
where we arrived about sundown. From here, still on the cars, we started 
east on the Memphis and Charleston railroad. The train proceeded very 
slowly, and after getting about seven or eight miles from Corinth, it stop¬ 
ped, and we passed the rest of the night on the cars. Early next morning 
the train started, and we soon arrived at the little town of Burnsville, about 
fifteen miles southeast of Corinth, where we left the cars, and went into biv¬ 
ouac near the eastern outskirts of the town. 

On the morning of the 19th, before daylight, we marched about two miles 
east of Burnsville, and formed in line of battle, facing the south, in thick 
woods, consisting mainly of tall pines. It was talked among us that the Con¬ 
federate pickets were only a short distance from our front, and it certainly 
looked like a battle was impending. By this time the military situation was 
pretty well understood by all of us. A Confederate force of about eight 
thousand men under Gen. Sterling Price was at the town of Iuka, about two 
miles east of us, and Gen. Grant and Gen. Rosecrans had formulated a plan 
for attacking this force on two sides at once. Gen. Rosecrans was to attack 
from the south, while our column, under the immediate command of Gen. E. 
O. C. Ord, was to close in from the north. Gen. Grant was on the field, and 
was with the troops on the north. The plan was all right, and doubtless 
would have succeeded, if the wind, on September 19, 1862, in that locality 
had been blowing from the south instead of the north. It is on such seem¬ 
ingly little things that the fate of battles, and sometimes that of nations, de¬ 
pends. Gen. Rosecrans on the afternoon of the 19th encountered the enemy 
south of Iuka, had a severe battle, and was quite roughly handled. Only a 
few miles to the north was all of Ord’s command, in line of battle, and ex¬ 
pecting to go in every minute, but the order never came. So all day we just 
stood around in those pine woods, wondering what in the world was the mat¬ 
ter. As already stated, the woods were dense, and the wind blowing from 
the north, carried from us all sounds of the battle. I personally know that 
this was the case. There were a few cannon shots next morning, fired by 
a battery in Gen. Rosecrans’ column, and those we distinctly heard from our 
position, and thought at the time they indicated a battle, but they were fired 
mainly as “feelers,” and to ascertain if the enemy were present in force. But, 
as stated, all day on the 19th we heard not a sound to indicate that a des¬ 
perate battle was in progress only a few miles from our front. 

Early in the morning of the 19th I witnessed an incident that inspired 
in me my first deep-seated hatred of whisky, and which has abided with me 
ever since. We had formed in line of battle, but the command had been 
given, “In place, rest!,” (which we were allowed to give a liberal construc¬ 
tion), and we were scattered around, standing, or sitting down, near the line. 
About this time two young assistant surgeons came from the rear, riding 
up the road on which the left of the regiment rested. They belonged to 
some infantry regiment of the division, but personally I didn’t know them. 
They were both fool drunk. On reaching our line of battle they stopped, but 
kept in their saddles, pulling their horses about, playing “smarty,” and grin- 

57 


58 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


ning and chattering like a brace of young monkeys. I looked at these drunk 
young fools, and thought that maybe, in less than an hour, one of them might 
be standing over me, probing a bullet wound in one of my legs, and then 
and there promptly deciding the question whether the leg should be sawed 
off, or whether it could be saved. And what kind of intelligent judgment on 
this matter, on which my life or death might depend, could this whisky- 
crazed young gosling De capable of exercising? I felt so indignant at the 
condition and conduct of these men, right on the eve of what we supposed 
might be a severe battle and in which their care for the wounded would be 
required, that it almost seemed to me it would be doing the government 
good service to shoot both the galoots, right on the spot. And there were 
other boys who felt the same way, who began making ominous remarks. The 
drunken young wretches seemed to have sense enough to catch the drift of 
something that was said, they put spurs to their horses and galloped off to 
the rear, and we saw them no more. 

On the morning or the 20th some regiments of our division moved for¬ 
ward and occupied the town of Iuka, but Gen. Price had in the meantime 
skipped out, so there was no fighting. Our regiment, with some others, re¬ 
mained in the original position, so that I never got to see the old town of 
Iuka, until several years after the war. Sometime during the afternoon of 
the 20th I went to Capt. Reddish and said to him that I had become so tired 
o. just standing around, and asked him if I could take a short stroll in the 
woods. The old man gave his consent, (as I felt satisfied he would), but 
cautioned me not to go too far away. The main thing in view, when I made 
the request, was the hope of finding some wild muscadine grapes. They 
were plentiful in this section of the country, and were now ripe, and I 
wanted a bait. I think a wild muscadine grape is just the finest fruit of that 
kind in existence. When ripe it has a strong and most agreeable fragrance, 
and when one is to the leeward of a vine loaded with grapes, and a gentle 
wind is blowing from the south, he is first made aware of their proximity 
by their grateful odor. I soon found some on this occasion, and they were 
simply delicious. Having fully satisfied my craving, I proceeded to make my 
way back to the regiment, when hearing the trampling sound of cavalry, I 
hurried through the woods to the side of the road, reaching there just as 
the head of the column appeared. It was only a small body, not more than 
a hundred or so, and there, riding at its head, was Grant! I had not seen 
him since the battle of Shiloh, and I looked at him with intense interest. He 
had on an old “sugar-loaf” hat, with limp, drooping brim, and his outer coat 
was the ordinary uniform coat, with a long cape, of a private in the cav¬ 
alry. His foot-gear was cavalry boots, splashed with mud, and the ends of 
his trousers’ legs were tucked inside the boots. No shoulder-straps were vis¬ 
ible, and the only evidence of rank about him that was perceptible consisted 
of a frayed and tarnished gold cord on his hat. He was looking downward as 
he rode by, and seemed immersed in thought. As the column passed alonir. 

I asked a soldier near the rear what troops they were, and he answered, “Co. 
A, Fourth Illinois Cavalry,—Gen. Grant’s escort.” This was the last time that 
I saw Grant during the war. 

On the evening of the 20th the regiment was drawn back into Burns¬ 
ville, and that night Co. D. bivouacked in the ‘ Harrison Hotel,” which form¬ 
erly had evidently been the principal hotel in the town. It was a rambling, 
roomy, old frame building, two stories and a half high, now vacant, stripped 
of all furniture, and with a thick layer of dust and dirt on the floors. We oc¬ 
cupied a room on the second floor, that evidently had been the parlor. Being 
quartered in a hotel was a novel experience, and the boys got lots of fun out 
of it. One would call out, “Bill, ring the clerk to send up a pitcher of ice 
water, and to be quick about it;” while another would say, “And while you’re 
at it, tell him to note a special order for me for quail on toast for break¬ 
fast,” and so on. But these pleasantries soon subsided, and it was not long 
before we were wrapped in slumber. It was a little after midnight, and I was 
sound asleep, when I heard some one calling, “Sergeant Stillwell! Where 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


59 


is Sergeant Stillwell?” i sprang to my feet, and answered “Here! What’s 
wanted?” The speaker came to me, and then I saw that it was Lt. Good- 
speed, who was acting as adjutant of the regiment. He proceeded to in¬ 
form me that I was to take charge of a detail of three corporals and twelve 
men and go to a point about a mile and a half east of Burnsville, to guard a 
party of section men while clearing and repairing the railroad from a re¬ 
cent wreck. He gave me full instructions, and then said, “Stillwell, a lieu¬ 
tenant should go in charge of this detail, but all that I could find made pret¬ 
ty good excuses, and I think you’ll do. It is a position of honor and respon¬ 
sibility, as there are some prowling bands of guerrillas in this vicinity, so 
be careful and vigilant.” I was then acting first sergeant, and really was 
exempt from this duty, but of course the idea of making that claim was not 
entertained for a moment. I took charge of my party, went to where the 
laborers were waiting for us with hand cars, and we soon arrived at the 
scene of the wreck. A day or two before our arrival at Burnsville a party 
of Confederate cavalry had torn up the track at this point, and wrecked and 
burnt a freight train. Some horses on the train had been killed in the wreck; 
their carcasses were lying around, and were rather offensive. The trucks, 
and other iron work of the cars were piled on the track, tangled up, and all 
out of shape, some rails removed, and others warped by heat, and things gen¬ 
erally in a badly torn-up condition. The main dirt road forked here, one fork 
going diagonally to the right of the track, and the other to the left,—both 
in an easterly direction. I posted three men and a corporal about a quarter 
of a mile to the front on the track, a similar squad at the same distance on 
each fork of the dirt road, and the others at intervals on each side of the 
railroad at the place of the wreck. The laborers went to work with a will, 
and about the time the owls were hooting for day the foreman reported to 
me that the track was clear, the rails replaced, and that they were ready to 
return to Burnsville. I then drew in my guards, we got on the hand cars, 
and were soon back in town. And thus ended my first, and only, personal 
supervision of the work of repairing a break in a railroad. 

I barely had time to make my coffee and toast a piece of bacon when 
the bugle sounded, “Fall in!” and soon, (that being the morning of Septem¬ 
ber 21st,) we started on the back track, and that day marched to Corinth. It 
so happened that on this march our regiment was at the head of the col¬ 
umn. The proper place of my company, according to army regulations, was 
the third from the right or head, of the line, but from some cause,—I never 
knew what, on that day we were placed at the head. And, as I was then 
acting as first sergeant of our company, that put me the head man on 
foot. These details are mentioned for the reason that all that day I marched 
pretty close to the tail of the horse that Gen. Ord was riding, and with boyish 
curiosity, I scanned the old general closely. He was a graduate of West Point, 
and an old regular. He had served in the Mexican war, and also had been 
in much scrapping with hostile Indians in the vicinity of the Pacific Coast. 
He looked old to me, but really he was, at this time, only about forty-four 
years of age. He certainly was indifferent to his personal appearance, as 
his garb was even plainer, and more careless, than Grant’s. He wore an old 
battered felt hat, with a flapping brim, and his coat was one of the old- 
fashioned, long-tailed, oil-cloth ‘wrap-rascals” then in vogue. It was all 
splattered with mud, with several big torn places in it. There was not a thing 
about him, that I could see, to indicate his rank. Later he was transferred 
to the eastern armies, eventually was assigned to the command of the Army 
of the James, and took an active and prominent part in the operations that 
culminated in the surrender of Lee at Appomattox. 

We reached Corinth that evening, went into bivouac, and remained there 
a couple of days. On the morning of September 24th, we fell in, marched 
down to the depot, climbed on the cars, and were soon being whirled north 
to Jackson, on the Mobile and Ohio railroad. We arrived there about noon, 
and at once transferred to a train on the Mississippi Central track, and 
which forthwith started for Bolivar. I think the train we came on to Jackson 


GO 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


went right back to Corinth to bring np more troops. We common soldiers 
could not imagine what this hurried rushing around meant, and it was some 
time before we found out. But history shows that Grant was much troubled 
about this time as to whether a threatened Confederate attack would be de¬ 
livered at Corinth, or at Bolivar. However, about the 22nd, the indications 
were that Bolivar would oe assailed, and troops were at once brought from 
Corinth to resist this apprehended movement of the Confederates. 

This probably is a fitting place for something to be said about our method 
of traveling by rail during the Civil war, as compared with the conditions 
of the present day in that regard. At the time I am now writing, about fif¬ 
teen thousand United States soldiers have recently been transported on the 
cars from different places in the interior of the country, to various points 
adjacent to the Mexican border, for the purpose of protecting American in¬ 
terests. And it seems that in some cases the soldiers were carried in ordi¬ 
nary passenger coaches. Thereupon bitter complaints were made on behalf 
of such soldiers because Pullman sleepers were not used! And these com¬ 
plaints were effective, too, for, according to the press reports of the time, 
the use of passenger coaches for such purposes was summarily stopped, ana 
Pullmans were hurriedly concentrated at. the places needed, and the soldiers 
went to war in them. Well, in our time, the old regiment was hauled over 
the country many times on trains, the extent of our travels in that manner 
aggregating hundreds and hundreds of miles. And such a thing as even or¬ 
dinary passenger coaches for the use of the enlisted men, was never heard of. 
And I have no recollection now that, (during the war), any were provided 
for the use of the commissioned officers, either, unless they were of pretty 
high rank. The cars that we rode in were the box, or freight cars in use in 
those days. Among them were cattle cars, flat, or platform cars, and in 
general every other kind of a freight car that could be procured. We would 
fill the box cars, and in addition clamber up on the roofs thereof and 
avail ourselves of every foot of space. And usually there was 
a bunch on the cow-catchers. The engines used wood for fuel; tne screens 
of the smoke-stacks mus. have been very coar,se, or maybe they had none at 
all, and the big cinders would patter down on us like hail. So, when we 
came to the journey’s end, by reason of the cinders and soot we were about 
as dirty and black as any regiment of sure-enough colored troops tha. fought 
under the Union flag in the last years of the war. When the regiment was 
sent home in September, 1865, some months after the war was over, the en¬ 
listed men made even that trip in our old friends, the box cars. It is true 
that, on this occasion, there was a passenger coach for the use of the com¬ 
missioned officers, and that is the only time that I ever saw such a coacn 
attached to a train on which the regiment was taken anywhere. Now, don’t 
misunderstand me. I am not kicking because more than half a century after 
the close of the Civil war, Uncle Sam sent his soldier boys to the front *n 
Pullmans. The force so sent was small, and the Government could well af¬ 
ford to do it, and it was right. I just want you to know that in my time, when 
we rode; it was in any kind of an old freight car, and we were awful glad to 
get that. And now, on this matter, “The words of Job are ended.” 

The only railroad accident I ever happened to be in was one that be¬ 
fell our train as we were in the act of leaving Jackson on the afternoon of’ 
the 24th. There was a good deal of hurry and confusion when we got inio 
the cars, and it looked like it was every fellow for himself. Jack Medford, 
(my chum), and I were running along the side of the track looking for a 
favorable situation, when we came to a flat car about the middle of the train, 
as yet unoccupied. “Jack,” said I, “let’s get on this!” He was a little slow 
of speech; he stopped, looked, and commenced to say something, but his hes- 
iation lost us the place,—and was fraught with other consequences. Right at 
that moment a bunch of tne 12th Michigan on the other side of the track 
piled on the car quicker tnan a flash, and took up all available room. Jack 
and I then ran forward and climbed on top of a box car, next to the tender 
of the engine, and soon after the train started. It had not yet got under full 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


61 


liead-way, and was going only about as fast as a man could walk, when, from 
some cause, the rails spread, and the first car to leave the rails was the flat 
above mentioned. But its trucks went bouncing along on the ties, and doubt¬ 
less nobody would have been hurt, had it not been for the fact that the car 
plunged into a cattle guard, of the kind then in use. This guard was just a 
hole dug in the track, probably four or five feet deep, the same in length, and 
in width extending from rail to rail. Well, the front end of the car went 
down into that hole, and then the killing began. They stopped the train 
very quickly, the entire event couldn’t have lasted more than half a minute, 
but that flat car was torn to splinters, three soldiers on it were killed dead, 
being frightfully crushed and mangled, and several more were badly injured. 
The men on the car jumped in every direction when the car began breaking 
up, and so the most of them escaped unhurt. If the train had been going 
at full speed, other cars would have been involved, and there is simply no 
telling how many would then have been killed or wounded. 

On what little things does the fate of man sometimes depend! If, in 
response to my suggestion, Jack Medford had promptly said, “All right;” 
we would have jumped on that flat car, and then would have been caught in 
the smash-up. But he took a mere fraction of time to look and think, and 
that brief delay was, perhaps, our temporal salvation. 

We arrived at Bolivar during the afternoon of the 24th and re-occupied 
our old camp. The work of fortifying that place was pushed with renewed 
vigor, and strong lines of breastworks, with earthen forts at intervals, were 
constructed, which practically inclosed the entire town. But we never had 
occasion to use them. Not long after our return to Bolivar, Gen. Grant be¬ 
came satisfied that the point the enemy would assail was Corinth, so the most 
of the troops at Bolivar were again started to Corinth, to aid in repelling 
the impending attack, but this time they marched overland. Our regiment 
and two others, with some artillery, were left to garrison Bolivar. And so 
it came to pass that the battle of Corinth was fought, on our part, by the 
command of Gen. Rosecrans on October 4th, and the battle of Hatchie Bridge 
the next day by the column from Bolivar,—and we missed both battles. For 
my part, I then felt somewhat chagrined that we didn’t get to take part in 
either of those battles. Here we had been rushed around the country from 
pillar to post, hunting for trouble, and then to miss both these fights, was 
just a little mortifying. However, the common soldier can only obey orders, 
and stay where he is put, and doubtless it was all for the best. 

Early on the morning of October 9th, a force of about four thousand 
men, including our regiment, started from Bolivar, marching southwest on 
the dirt road. We arrived at Grand Junction at dark, after a march of about 
twenty miles. Grand Junction was the point where the Memphis & Charles¬ 
ton and the Mississippi Central railroads crossed. We had not much more 
than stacked arms, and of course before I had time to cook my supper, when 
1 was detailed for picket, and was on duty all night. But I didn’t go supper¬ 
less by any means, as i made coffee and fried some bacon at the picket post. 
Early next morning the command fell in line, and we all marched back to Bol¬ 
ivar again. We had hardly got started before it began to rain, and just 
poured down all day long. But the weather was pleasant, we took off our 
shoes and socks and rolled up our breeches, after the manner heretofore de¬ 
scribed, and just “socked on” through the yellow mud, whooping and singing, 
and as wet as drowned rats. We reached Bolivar some time after dark. The 
boys left there in camp in some way had got word that we were on the return, 
and had prepared for us some camp-kettles full of hot, strong coffee, with 
plenty of fried sow-oelly,—so we had a good supper. What the object of the 
expedition was, and what caused us to turn back, I have never learnt, or if i 
did, have now forgotten. 

On returning to Bolivar we settled down to the usual routine of battalion 
drill, and standing picket. The particular guard duty the regiment perform¬ 
ed nearly all the time we were at Bolivar, (with some casual exceptions,) was 
guarding the railroad from the bridge over Hatchie river, north to Toone’s 


62 


THE STOEY OF A COMMON SOLDIEE. 


station, a distance of about seven miles. Toone’s station, as its name indi¬ 
cates, was nothing but a stopping point, with a little rusty looking old frame 
depot, and a switch. The usual tour of guard duty was twenty-four hours all 
the while I was in the service, except during this period of railroad guarding, 
and for it the time was two days and nights. Every foot of the railroad had 
to be vigilantly watched to prevent its being torn up by bands of guerrillas, 
or disaffected citizens. One man with a crow-bar, or even an old ax, could 
remove a rail at a culvert, or some point on a high grade,and cause a disas¬ 
trous wreck. 

I liked this railroad guard duty. Between Bolivar and Toone’s the road 
ran through dense woods, with only an occasional little farm on either side of 
the road, and it was pleasant to be out in those fine old woods, and far away 
from the noise and smells of the camps. And there are so many things that 
are strange and attractive, to be seen and heard, when one is standing alone 
on picket, away out in some lonesome place, in the middle of the night. I 
think that a man who has never spent some wakeful hours in the night, bv 
himself, out in the woods, has simply missed one of the most interesting parts 
of life. The night is the time when most of the wild things are astir, and 
some of the tame ones, too. There was some kind of a very small frog in the 
swamps and marshes near Bolivar that gave forth about the most plaintive 
little cry that I ever heard. It was very much like the bleating of a young 
lamb, and, on hearing it the first time, I thought sure it was from some little 
lamb that was lost, or *n distress of some kind. I never looked the matter up 
to ascertain of what particular species those frogs were. They may be com¬ 
mon throughout the South, but I never heard this particular call except around 
and near Bolivar. And the woods between Bolivar and Toone’s were full of 
owls, from great big fellows with a thunderous scream, down to the little 
screech owls, who made only a sort of chattering noise. One never failing 
habit of the big owls was to assemble in some grove of tall trees just about 
daybreak, and have a morning concert, that could be heard half a mile away. 
And there were also whippoorwills, and mocking birds, and, during the pleas¬ 
ant season of the year, myriads of insects that would keep sounding their 
shrill little notes the greater part of the night. And the only time one sees 
a flying squirrel, (unless you happen to cut down the tree in whose hollow 
he is sleeping,) is in the night time. They are then abroad in full force. 

When on picket in my army days I found out that dogs are great noc¬ 
turnal ramblers. I have been on guard at a big tree, on some grass-grown 
country road, when something would be heard coming down the road to¬ 
wards me; pat, pat, pat, pitty-pat,—then it would stop short. The night 
might be too dark for me to see it, but I knew it must be a dog. It would 
stand silent for a few seconds, evidently closely scrutinizing that man alone 
under the tree, with something like a long shining stick in his hands; then 
it would stealthily leave the road, and would be heard rustling through the 
leaves as it made a half circle through the woods to get by me. On reach¬ 
ing the road below me, its noise would cease for a little while,—it was then 
looking back over its shoulder to see if that man was still there. Having 
satisfied itself on tnat point, then—pat, pat, pitty-pat, and it went off in a 
trot down the road. When you see an old farm dog asleep in the sun on 
the porch in the day time, with his head between his paws, it is, as a gen¬ 
eral rule, safe to assume that he was up and on a scout all the previous 
night, and maybe traveled ten or fifteen miles. Cats are also confirmed 
night prowlers, but I don’t think they wander as far as dogs. Later, when 
we were in Arkansas, sometimes a full grown bear would walk up to some 
drowsy picket, and give him the surprise of his life. 

One quiet, star-lit summer night, while on picket between Bolivar and 
Toone’s, I had the good fortune to witness the flight of the largest and most 
brilliant meteor I ever have seen. It was a little after midnight, and I was 
standing alone at my post, looking, listening, and thinking. Suddenly there 
came a loud, rushing, roaring sound, like a passenger train close by, going 
at full speed, and there in the west, was a meteor! Its flight was from the 


THE STOEY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


63 


southwest to the northeast, parallel with the horizon, and low down. Its 
head, or body, looked like a huge ball of fire, and it left behind a long, im¬ 
mense tail of brilliant white, that lighted up all the western heavens. While 
yet in full view, it exploded with a crash like a near-by clap of tnunder, there 
was a wide, glittering shower of sparks,—and then silence and darkness. 
The length of time it was visible could not have been more than a few sec¬ 
onds, but it was a most extraordinary spectacle. 

On October 19th, the regiment, (except those on guard duty), went as 
escort of a foraging expedition to a big plantation about twelve miles from 
Bolivar down the Hatchie river. We rode there and back in the big govern¬ 
ment wagons, each wagon being drawn by a team of six mules. Like Joseph’s 
brethren when they went down into Egypt, we were after corn. The plan¬ 
tation we foraged was an extensive one on the fertile bottom land of the 
Hatchie river, and the owner that year had grown several hundred acres of 
corn, which had all been gathered, or shocked, and we just took it as we 
found it. The people evidently were wealthy for that time and locality, many 
slaves were on the place, and it was abounding in live stock, and poultry of 
all kinds. The plantatiop in general presented a scene of rural plenty and 
abundance that reminded me of the home of old Baltus Van Tassel, as de¬ 
scribed by Washington Irving in the story of “The Legend of Sleepy Hol¬ 
low,”—with this difference: Everything about the Tennessee plantation was 
dirty, out of order, and in general higgledy-piggledy condition. And the 
method of farming was slovenly in the extreme. The cultivated land had 
been cleared by cutting away the underbrush and small trees, while tne big 
ones had merely been ‘ deadened,” by girdling them near the ground. These 
dead trees were all standing in ghastly nakedness, and so thick in many 
places that it must have been difficult to plow through them, while flocks of 
crows and buzzards were sailing around them or perched in their tops, caw¬ 
ing and croaking, and thereby augmenting the woe-begone looks of things. 
The planter himself was of a type then common in the South. He was a 
large, coarse looking man, with an immense paunch, wore a broad-brimmed, 
home-made straw hat, and butternut jeans clothes. His trousers were 
of the old-fashioned, “broad-fall” pattern. His hair was long, he had a 
scraggy, sandy beard, and chewed “long green” tobacco, continually and 
viciously. But he was shrewd enough to know that ugly talk on his part 
wouldn’t mend matters, but only make them worse, so he stood around in 
silence while we took his corn, but he looked as malignant as a rattlesnake. 
His wife was directly his opposite in appearance and demeanor. She was 
tall, thin, and bony, with reddish hair, and a sharp nose and chin. And 
goodness, but she had a temper! She stood in the door of the dwelling 
house, and just tongue-lashed us “Yankees,” as she called us, to the full ex¬ 
tent of her ability. The boys took it all good naturedly, and didn’t jaw back. 
We couldn’t afford to quarrel with a woman. A year later, the result of her 
abuse would have been tne stripping of the farm of every hog and head of 
poultry on it, but at this time the orders were strict against indiscriminate, 
individual foraging, and except one or two bee-stands full of honey, nothing 
was taken but the corn. And I have no doubt that long ere this the Govern¬ 
ment has paid that planter, or his heirs, a top-notch price for everything we 
took. It seems to be easy, now-a-days, to get a special Act through Con¬ 
gress, making “full compensation” in cases of that kind. 

Not long after the foregoing expedition, I witnessed a somewhat amus¬ 
ing incident one night on the picket line. One day, for some reason, the reg¬ 
iment was required, in addition to the railroad guards, to furnish a number 
of men for picket duty. Second Lieut. Sam. T. Carrico of Co. B, was the 
officer, and it fell to my lot to be the sergeant of the guard. We picketed a 
section of the line a mile or so southwest of Bolivar, and the headquarter 
post where the lieutenant and the sergeant of the guard stayed, was at a 
point on a main traveled road running southwest from the town. It was in 
the latter part of October, and the night was a bad and cold one. Lieut. 
Carrico and I had “doubled up,” spread one of our blankets on the ground. 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


64 

and with the other drawn over us, were lying down and trying to doze a lit¬ 
tle, when about ten o’clock we heard a horseman coming at full speed from 
the direction of Bolivar. We thereupon rose to a sitting posture, and await¬ 
ed developments. The horseman, on nearing our post and being challeng¬ 
ed, responded, “Friend, without the countersign!” and, in a peremptory man¬ 
ner told the sentinel on duty that he wanted to see the officer of 
ihe guard. Lieut. Carrico and I walked up to the horseman, and, on 
getting close to him, saw that he was a Union officer of the rank of 
Captain. Addressing himself to the lieutenant, in a loud and hasty manner 

he told him his story, which, in substance, was that he was Captain - 

giving his name), on Gen. Grant’s staff, that he had just arrived in Bolivar 
on the train from Memphis, that he had important business a few miles out¬ 
side of the lines, and being in a great hurry he had not gone to post head¬ 
quarters to get the countersign, as he felt satisfied that the statement of his 
rank and business would be sufficient to insure his being passed through the 
picket line, and so on. Lieut. Carrico listened in silence until the fellow fin¬ 
ished, and then said, quietly but very firmly, “Captain, if you claimed to be 
Gen. Grant himself, you shouldn’t pass through my line without the counter¬ 
sign.” At this the alleged ‘staff officer” blew up, and thundered and bullied 
at a great rate. Carrico was not much more than a boy, being only abouc 
twenty-two years old, and of slight build, but he kept perfectly cool and re¬ 
mained firm as a rock. Finally the officer wheeled his horse around and 
started back to town at a furious gallop. Carrico then walked up to the sen¬ 
tinel on duty and said to him, “Now, if that fellow comes back, you chal¬ 
lenge him, and make him conform to every item of the army regulations-” 
and to make sure about it, he gave the guard specific instructions as to his 
duties in such cases. We stood around and waited, and it was not long 
before we neard the horseman returning at his usual rate of speed. He nev¬ 
er checked his gait until the challenge of the sentinel rang out, “Halt! Who 
comes there?” “Friend, with the countersign!” was the answer. “Dis¬ 
mount, friend, advance, and give the countersign!” cried the sentinel. 
Kuh-sock, went the high-top boots of the rider in the mud, and leading his 
horse, he walked up, gave the talismanic word, to which the response was 
made, “Countersign’s correct! Pass, friend.” The officer then sprang into 
the saddle, and rode up to the lieutenant and me. Taking a memorandum 
book and pencil from one of his pockets, he said to Carrico, “Give me your 
name, company, and regiment, sir.” ‘ Samuel T. Carrico, second lieutenant 
Co. B, 61st Illinois Infantry.” The officer scribbled in his note-book, then 
turned to me, “And yours;” “Leander Stillwell, sergeant Co. D, b^st Illinois 
Infantry;” and that answer was also duly recorded. “Good night, gentlemen; 
you’ll render an account for this outrage later;” and with this parting sal¬ 
utation, the officer galloped away. “All right!” Carrico called a*„er him, 
“you know where to find us.” The victim of the “outrage” had not return¬ 
ed when we were relieved at 9 o’clock the next morning, and we never saw 
or heard of him any more. Of course his threat on leaving us was nure bluff, 
for Lieut. Carrico had only done his plain and simple duty. The fellow was 
probably all right; his returning with the countersign would indicate it. 
But his important business” was doubtless simply to keep a date with some 
lady-love out in the country, and he wanted to meet her under the friendly 
cover of the night. 

A few words will here be said in the nature of a deserved tribute to 
Lieut. Carrico. Later he rose to the rank of Captain of his company, and 
was one among the very best and bravest of the lirte officers of the regi¬ 
ment. He had nerves like hammered steel, and was as cool a man in action 
as I ever have known. Of all the officers of the regiment who were muster¬ 
ed in at its organization, he is now the only survivor. He is living at Alva, 
Oklahoma, and is a hale, hearty old man. 



CHAPTER IX. 


THE AFFAIR AT SALEM CEMETERY.—JACKSON, CARROLL STATION. - 
DECEMBER, 1862, JANUARY, 1863.—BOLIVAR, FEBRUARY-MAY, 

1863. 

© N THE AFTERNOON OF DECEMBER 18th, suddenly, without any previ¬ 
ous warning or notification, the bugle sounded “Fall in!” and all the 
regiment fit for duty and not on guard, at once formed on the regimental 
parade ground. From there we marched to the depot and with the 43rd 
Illinois of our brigade, got on the cars, and were soon being whirled over the 
road in a northerly direction. It was a warm, sunshiny day, and we common 
soldiers supposed we were going on just some little temporary scout, so we 
encumbered ourselves with nothing but our arms, and haversacks, and can¬ 
teens. Neglecting to take our blankets was a grievous mistake, as later we 
found out to our sorrow. We arrived at Jackson-a little before sundown, 
there left the cars, and, with the 43rd, forthwith marched out about two 
miles east of town. A little after dark we halted in an old field on the left 
of the road, in front of a little old country graveyard called Salem Cemetery, 
and there bivouacked for the night. Along in the evening tne weather 
turned intensely cold. It was a clear, star-lit night, and the stars glittered 
in the heavens like little icicles. We were strictly forbidden to build any 
fires for the reason, as our officers truly said, the Confederates were not 
more than half a mile away, right in our front. As before stated, we had 
no blankets, and how we suffered with the cold! I shall never forget that 
night of December 18th, 1862. We would form little columns of twenty or 
thirty men, in two ranks, and would just trot round and round in the tall 
weeds and broom sedge to keep from chilling to death. Sometimes we 
would pile down on the ground in great bunches, and curl up close together 
like hogs in our efforts to keep warm. But some part of our bodies wouM 
be exposed, which soon would be stinging with cold, then up we would get 
and renew the trotting process. At one time in the night some of tne boys, 
rendered almost desperate oy their suffering, started to build a fire with 
some fence rails. The red flames began to curl around the wood, and I 
started for the fire, intending to absorb some of that. glowing heat, if, as 
Uncle Remus says, “it wuz de las' ack.” But right then a mounted officer 
dnshed up to the spot, and sprang from his horse. He was wearing big cav¬ 
alry boots, and jumped on that fire with both feet and stamped it out in 
less time than I am taking to tell about it. I heard afterwards that he was 
Col. Engelmann, of the 43rd Illinois, then the commander of our brigade. 
Having put out the fire, he turned on the men standing around, and swor ? 
at them furiously. He said that the rebels were right out in our front, and 
in less than five minutes after we had betrayed our presence by fires, they 
would open on us with artillery, and “shell hell out of us;”—and more to the 
same effect. The boys listened in silence, meek as lambs, and no more fires 
were started by us that night. But the hours seemed interminably long, and 
it looked like the night would never come to an end. At last some little 
woods’ birds were heard, faintly chirping in the weeds and underbrush near 
by, then some owls set up a hooting in the woods behind us, and I knew 
that dawn was approaching. When it became light enough to distingU' 
ish one another, we saw that we presented a doleful appearance—all hollow 
eyed, with blue noses, pinched faces, and shivering as if we would shake to 

65 


66 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


pieces. Permission was then given to build small fires to cook our break¬ 
fast, and we didn’t wait xor the order to be repeated. I made a quart canful 
oi strong, hot coffee, toasted some bacon on a stick, and then, with some 
hardtack, had a good breakfast, and felt better. Breakfast over, (which 
didn’t take long), the regiment was drawn oack into the cemetery, and placed 
in line behind the section of inclosing fence that faced to the front. The 
fence was of post and plank, the planks arranged lengthwise, with spaces 
between. We were ordered to lie flat on the ground, and keep the barrels 
of our guns out of sight, as much as possible. Our position in general may 
be described about as follows: The right of the regiment rested near the 
dirt road, and at right angles to it. The ground before us was open for more 
than half a mile. It sloped down gently, then it rose gradually to a long, 
bare ridge, or slight elevation of ground, which extended parallel to our 
front. The road was enclosed by an old-time staked and ridered fence, of 
the “worm” pattern. On our right, and on the other side of the road, was a 
thick forest of tall trees, in which the 43rd Illinois was posted. The cemetery 
was thickly studded with tall, native trees, and a few ornamental ones, 
such as cedar and pine. Soon after we had been put in position, as above 
stated, Col. Engelmann, the brigade commander, came galloping up, and 
stopped about opposite the front of the regiment. Maj. Ohr, our regimental 
commander, who was oul in the rear of the regiment on foot, walked out 
to meet him. Engelmann was a German, and a splendid officer. 

“Goot morning, Major,” he said, in a loud voice we all heard, “how are 
de boys?” “All right,” answered the Major, “we had rather a chilly night, 
but are feeling first rate now.” “Dat iss goot;” responded the Colonel, and 
continued in his loud tone, “our friends are right out here in de bush; I 
reckon dey’ll show up presently. Maybe so ’dey will give us a touch of ’deir 
artillery practice,—but dat hurt’s nobody. Shoost have de poys keep cool.” 

Then he approached the Major closer, said something in a low tone we 
did not hear, waved his hand to us, and then galloped off to the right. He 
was hardly out of sight, when sure enough, two or three cannon shots were 
heard out in front, followed by a scattering fire of small arms. We had *i 
small force of our cavalry in the woods beyond the ridge I have mentioned, 
and they soon appeared, slowly falling back. They were spread out in a 
wide, extended skirmish line, and acted fine. They would trot a little ways 
to the rear, then face about, and fire their carbines at the advancing foe, 
who, as yet, was unseen by us. Finally they galloped off to the left, and 
disappeared in the woods and all was still for a short time. Suddenly, with¬ 
out a note of warning, and not preceded by even a skirmish line, there ap¬ 
peared coming over the ridge in front, and down the road, a long column 
of Confederate cavalry! They were, when first seen, at a walk, and marc fl¬ 
ing by the flank, with a front of four men. How deep the column was we 
could not tell. The word was immediately passed down our line not to lire 
until at the word of command ,and that we were to fire by file, beginning 
on the right. That is, only two men, front and rear rank, would fire togeth¬ 
er, and so on, down the line. The object of this was apparent: bv the time 
the left of the regiment had emptied their guns, the right would have re¬ 
loaded. and thus a continuous firing would be maintained. With guns cock 
ed and fingers on the triggers, we waited in tense anxiety for the word to fire. 
Maj. Ohr was standing a few paces in the rear of the center of the regime Y 
watching the advance of the enemy. Finally, when they were in fair mus¬ 
ket range, came the order, cool and deliberate, without a trace of excite¬ 
ment: “At-ten-shun, bat-tal-yun! Fire by file! Ready!—Commence firing!” 
and down the line crackled the musketry. Concurrently with us, the oid 
43rd Illinois on the right joined in the serenade. In the front file of the 
Confederate column was one of the usual fellows with more daring than 
discretion, who was mounted on a tall, white horse. Of course^ is long 
as that horse was on its feet, everybody shot at him, or the riler But that 
luckless steed soon went down in a cloud of dust, and that was the «nd 
of old Wliitey. The effect of our fire on the enemy was marked and in- 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER 


67 


stantaneous. The head of their column crumpled up instanter; the road 
was full of dead and wounded horses, while several that were riderless 
went galloping down the road by us, with bridle reins and stirrups flapping 
on their necks and flanks. I think there is no doubt that the Confederates 
were taken completely uy surprise. They stopped short when we opened 
on them, wheeled around, and went back much faster than they came, ex¬ 
cept a little bunch who had been dismounted. They hoisted a white rag, 
came in, and surrendered. The whole affair was exceedingly “short and 
sweet;” in duration n coulu not have exceeded only a few minutes, but it 
was highly interesting, as long as it lasted. But now the turn of the other 
fellows was to come. Soon after their charging column disappeared behind 
the ridge in our front, they put in position on the crest of the ridge two 
1 lack, snaky looking pieces of artillery, and began giving us the benefit of 
the “artillery practice” v^ol. Engelmann had alluded to. They were beyond 
the range of our muskets; we had no artillery with our little force, and 
just had to lie there and take it. I know nothing about the technicalities of 
cannon firing, so I can only describe in my own language *how it appeared 
to us. The enemy now knew just where we were, there were no obstructions 
between them and us, and they concentrated their fire on our regiment. 
Sometimes they threw a solid shot., at us, but mostly they fired shells. They 
were in plain sight, and we could see every movement connected with the 
firing of the guns. After a piece was fired, the first thing done was to 
“swab” it. Two men would rush to the muzzle with the swabber, give it a 
few quick turns in the bore, then throw down the swabber, and grab up the 
rammer. Another man would then run forward with the projectile, and in¬ 
sert it in the muzzle oi the piece, the rammers would ram it home, and then 
stand clear. The man at tne breech would then pull the lanyard,—and now 
look out! A tongue o* red flame would leap from the mouth of the cannon, 
followed by a billow Oi white smoke; then would come the scream of the 
missile as it passed over our heads, (if a solid shot), or exploded near our 
front or rear, (if a shell,) and lastly we would hear the report of the gun. 
Then we all drew a long breath. When they threw shells at us their method 
was to elevate the muzzle of the gun, and discharge the missile in such a 
manner that it would describe what I suppose would be called the parabola 
of a curve. As it would be nearing the zenith of its flight we could follow it 
distinctly with the naked eye. It looked like a big, black bug. You may rest 
assured that we watchea the downward course of this messenger of mis¬ 
chief with the keenest interest. Sometimes it looked as if it would hit our 
line, sure, but it never did. And, as stated, we could only lie there and 
watch all this, without the power on our part to do a thing in return. Such 
a situation is trying on the nerves. But firing at our line was much like 
shooting at the edge of a knife-blade, and their practice on us, which lasted 
at least two hours, for a** practical results, to quote Col. Engelmann, 
“shoost hurt nobody.” A private of Co. G had his head carried away by a 
fragment of a shell, and a few others were slightly injured, and that was the 
extent of our casualties. After enduring this cannonading for the time above 
stated, Col. Engelmann became apprehensive that the Confederate cavalry were 
flanking us, and trying to get between us and Jackson, so he ordered our 
force to retire. We fell back, in good order, for about a mile, then halte 1. 
and faced to the front again. Reinforcements soon came out from Jackson, 
and then the whole command advanced, but the enemy had disappeared. 
Our regiment marched in column by the flank up the road down which the 
Confederates had made their charge. They had removed their killed and 
wounded, but at the point reached by their head of column, the road was 
full of dead horses. Old W.hitey was sprawled out in the middle of the lane, 
“with his nostrils all wide,” and more than a dozen bullet holes in his body. 
Near his carcass I saw a bloody yarn sock, with a bullet hole square through 
the instep. I made up my mind, then and there, that if ever I happened to 
get into the cavalry I would, if possible, avoid riding a white horse. 

I will now say something about poor Sam Cobb, heretofore mentioned, 


68 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


and then he will disappear from this history. Sam was with us at the begin¬ 
ning of this affair on December 19th, but the very instant that the enemy 
came in sight he broke from the ranks and ran, and never showed up until 
we returned to Jackson some days later. He then had one of his hands tied 
up, and claimed that he had been wounded in the fight. The nature of his 
wound was simply a neat litle puncture, evidently made by a pointed instru¬ 
ment, in the ball of the forefinger of one of his hands. Not a shot had been 
fired at us up to the time when he fled, so K was impossible for his huct 
to have been inflicted by the enemy. It was the belief of all of us that he 
had put his iorefinger against a tree, and then jabbed the point of his bay¬ 
onet through the ball thereof. I heard Capt. Reddish, in bitter language, 
charge him with this aiterwards, and poor Sam just hung his head, and said 
nothing. When the regiment veteranized in 1864, Sam didn’t re-enlist, and 
was mustered out in February, 1865, at the end of his term of service. On 
returning to his old home, he found that nis reputation in the army had 
preceded him, and it is likely that the surroundings were not agreeable. At 
any rate, he soon left there, emigrated to a southwestern state, and died there 
several years ago. In my opinion, he really was to be sincerely pitied, for 
I think, as he had told me at Bolivar, he just “couldn’t help it.” 

We advanced this day (December 19) only two or three miles beyond 
Salem Cemetery, and bivouacked for the night in an old field. The weather 
had changed, and was now quite pleasant; besides, the embargo on fires was 
lifted, so the discomfort of the previous night was only something to bo 
laughed about. The next day we were afoot early, and marched east in the 
direction of Lexington about fifteen miles. But we encountered no enemy, and 
on December 21 turned square around and marched back to Jackson. Gen. 
Forrest was in command of the Confederate cavalry operating in this region, 
and he completely fooled Gen. J. C. Sullivan, the Union commander of the 
district of Jackson. While we were on this wild-goose chase towards Lex¬ 
ington, Forrest simply whirled around our flanks at Jackson, and swept 
north on the railroad, scooping in almost everything to the Kentucky line, 
and burning bridges and destroying culverts on the railroad in great shape. 

During our short stay that ensued at Jackson, an event occurred that 1 
have always remembered with pleasure. In 1916 I wrote a brief preliminary 
statement touching this Salem Cemetery affair, followed by one ,of my army 
letters, the two making a connected article, and the same was published in 
The Erie (Kansas) “Record.” It may result in some repetition, but I have con¬ 
cluded to here reproduce this published article, which I have called, “A Sol¬ 
dier’s Christmas Dinner.” 


A SOLDIER'S CHRISTMAS DINNER, BY JUDGE LEANDER STILLWELL. 

Christmas Day in the year eighteen hundred and sixty-two was a gloomv 
one, in every respect, for the soldiers of the Union army in West Tennes¬ 
see. Five days before, the Confederate General Van Dorn had captured 
Grant’s depot of supplies at Holly Springs, and government stores of the 
value of a million and a half of dollars had gone up in smoke and flame. About 
the same time Forrest had struck the Mobile and Ohio railroad on which 
we depended to bring us from the north our supplies of hardtack and bacon, 
and had made a wreck of the road from about Jackson, Tennessee, near’v 
to Columbus, Kentucky. For some months previous to these disasters the 
regiment to which I belonged, the 61st Illinois Infantry, had been stationed 
at Bolivar, Tennessee, engaged in guarding the railroad from that place to 
Toone’s station, a few miles north of Bolivar. On December 18 with another 
regiment of our brigade, we were sent by rail to Jackson to assist in repell¬ 
ing Forrest, who was threatening that place. On the following dey the two 
regiments, numbering in me aggregate about 500 men, in connection with a 
small detachment of our cavalry, had a lively and spirited little brush with 
the Confederate forces about two miles east of Jackson, near a countrv 



THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


69 


burying ground called Salem Cemetery, which resulted in our having the 
good fortune to give them a salutary check. 

Reinforcements were sent out from Jackson, and Forrest disappeared, 
-ne next day our entire command marched about fifteen miles eastward- 
ly in the direction of the Tennessee river. It was doubtless supposed by our 
commanding general that the Confederates had retreated in that direction, 
but he was mistaken. Forrest had simply whipped around Jackson, struck 
the railroad a few miles north thereof, and then had continued north up the 
road, capturing and destroying as he went. On the succeeding day, Decem¬ 
ber 21st, we all marched back to Jackson, and my regiment went into camp 
on a bleak, muddy hillside in the suburbs of the town, and there we remain¬ 
ed until December 29th, when we were sent to Carroll station, about eight 
miles north of Jackson. 

I well remember how gloomy I felt on the morning of that Christmas 
Day at Jackson, Tennessee. I was then only a littie over nineteen years of 
age. I had been in the army nearly a year, lacking just a few days, and 
every day of that time, except a furlough of two days granted at our camp 
of instruction before we left Illinois for the front, had been passed with the 
regiment in camp and field. 

Christmas morning my thoughts naturally turned to the little old log 
cabin in the backwoods of western Illinois, and I couldn’t help thinking about 
the nice Christmas dinner that I knew the folks at home would sit down i o 
on that day. 

There would be a great, chicken-pot pie, with its savory crust and a 
superabundance of lignt, puffy dumplings; delicious light, hot biscuits; a big 
ball of our own home-made butter, yellow as gold; broad slices of juicy ham, 
the product of hogs of our own fattening, and home cured with hickory-wood 
smoke; fresh eggs from the barn in reckless profusion, fried in the ham 
gravy; mealy Irish potatoes, baked in their jackets; coffee with cream 
about half an inch thick; apple butter and crab apple preserves; a big plate 
of wild honey in the comb; and winding up with a thick wedge of mince 
pie that mother knew so well how to make—such mince pie, in fact, as was 
made only in those days, and is now as extinct as the dodo. And when I 
turned from these musings upon the bill of fare they would have at home 
to contemplate the dreary realities of my own possible dinner for the day 
—my oyster can full of coffee and a quarter ration of hardtack and sow¬ 
belly comprised the menu. If the eyes of some old soldier should light upon 
these lines, and he should thereupon feel disposed to curl his lip with un¬ 
utterable scorn and say: ‘ ±uis fellow was a milksop and ought to have been 
fed on Christian Commission and Sanitary goods, and put to sleep at night 
with a warm rock at his feet;”—I can only say in extenuation that the sol¬ 
dier whose feelings i have been trying to describe was only a boy,—and, 
boys, you probably know how it was yourselves during the first year of your 
army life. But, after all, the soldier had a Christmas dinner that day, and 
it is of that I have started out to speak. 

Several years ago my old army letters which had been so carefully kept 
and cherished for all these many years, passed from the keeping of those to 
whom they had been addressed, back into the possession of him who penned 
them, and now, after the lapse of fifty-four years, one of these old letters*' 
written to my father, shall re-tell the story of this Christmas dinner. 

Jackson, Tennessee, 
December 27, 1862. 

Mr. J. O. Stillwell, 

Otter Creek, Illinois. 

I wrote you a short and hasty letter the fore part of this week to let you 
know that I was all right, and giving you a brief account of our late ups and 
downs, but I doubt if you have received it. The cars have not been running 
since we came back to Jackson from our march after Forrest. The talk in 
camp is that the rebs have utterly destroyed the railroad north of here clean 
to the Mississippi river, and that they have also broken it in various places 


70 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


and damaged it badly south of here between Bolivar and Grand Junction. 
I have no idea when this letter will reach you, but will write it anyhow, 
and trust to luck and Uncle Sam to get it through in course of time. 

We are now in camp on a muddy hillside in the outskirts of Jackson. I 
think the spot where we are must have been a cavalry camp last summer. 
Lots of corn cobs are scattered on the ground, old scraps of harness leather, 
and such other truck as accumulates where horses are kept standing around. 
When we left Bolivar we were in considerable of a hurry, with no time to 
primp, or comb our hair, and neither did we bring out tents along, so we 
are just living out of doors now, and “boarding at Sprawl’s.” There is plen¬ 
ty of wood, though, to make fires, and we have jayhawked enough planks and 
boards to lie on to keep us out of the mud, so we just curl up at night in our 
blankets with all our clothes on, and manage to get along fairly well. Our 
worst trouble now is the lack of grub. The destruction of the railroad has 
cut off our supplies, and there is no telling just exactly how long it may be 
before it will be fixed up and in running order again, so they have been com¬ 
pelled, I suppose, to cut down our rations. We get half rations of coffee, and 
quarter rations of hardtack and bacon. What we call small rations, such as 
Yankee beans, rice, and split peas, are played out; at least we don’t get 
any. The hardtack is so precious now that the orderly sergeant no longer 
knocks a box open and lets every man help himself, but he stands right over 
the box and counts the number of tacks he gives to every man. I never 
thought I’d see the day wnen army hardtack would be in such demand that 
they’d have to be counted out to the soldiers as if they were money, but 
that’s what’s the matter now. And that aint all. The boys will stand around 
until the box is emptied, and then they will pick up the fragments that have 
fallen to the ground in the divide, and scrape off the mud with their knives, 
and eat the little pieces, and glad to get them. Now and then ,to help out 
the sow-belly, we get quarter rations of fresh beef from the carcass of a 
Tennessee steer that the quartermaster manages to lay hands on somehow. 
But its awful poor beef, lean, slimy, skinny and stringy. The boys say that 
one can throw a piece up against a tree, and it will just stick there and quiv¬ 
er and twitch for all the world like one of those blue-bellied lizards at home 
will do when you knock him off a fence rail with a stick. 

I just wish that old Forrest, who is the cause of about all this trouble, 
had to go without anything to eat until he was so weak that he would have to 
be fed with a spoon. Maybe after he had been hungry real good for a while 
he’d know how it feels himself, and would let our railroads alone. 

But I want to tell you that I had a real bully Christmas dinner, in spite 
of old Forrest and the whole kapoodle. It was just a piece of the greatest 
good luck I’ve had for many a day. 

When Christmas morning came I was feeling awful blue. In spite of all 
I could do, I couldn’t help Put think about the good dinner you folks at home 
would have that day, and I pictured it all out in my imagination. Then about 
every one of the boys had something to say about what he would have for 
Christmas dinner if he was home, and they’d run over the list of good things 
uil it was almost enough to make one go crazy. To make matters worse, iust 
the day before in an old camp I had found some tattered fragments of a New 
Work illustrated newspaper with a whole lot of pictures about Thanksgiving 
day in the army of the Potomac. They were shown as sitting around piles 
of roast turkeys, pumpkin pies, pound cake, and goodness knows what else 
and I took ii for granted that they would have the same kind of fodder to¬ 
day. You see, the men in that army, by means of their railroads, are only 
a few hours from home, and old Forrest is not in their neighborhood so it' 
is an easy thing for them to have good times. And here we were aw? T 
down in Tennessee, in the mud and the cold, no tents, on quarter rations and 
picking scraps of hardtack out of the mud and eating them—it was enough 
to make a preacher swear. But along about noon John Richey came to me and 
proposed that in as much as it was Christmas day we should strike out and 
forage for a square meal. It didn’t take much persuasion, and straightway 


71 


' / 
/ 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 

we sallied forth. I wanted to hunt up the old colored woman who gave me 
the mess of boiled roasting ears when we were here last summer, but John 
said he thought he had a better thing than that, and as he is ten years older 
than I am, 1 knocked under and let him take the lead. 

About half a mile from our camp, in the outskirts of the town, we "line 
to a large, handsome, two-story and 1 a half frame house, with a whole lot 
of nigger cabins in the rear. John took a survey of the premises and said, 
“Lee, right here’s our meat.” We went into the yard at a litle side gate be¬ 
tween the big house and the nigger quarters, and were steering ioi one of the 
cabins, when out steps from the back porch of the big house the lady of the 
place herself. That spoiled the whole game; John whirled in his tracks and 
commenced to sidle away. But the lady walked towards us and said in a 
very kind and friendly manner: “Do you men want anything?” “Oh, no, 
ma’am,” replied John, “we just came here to see if we could get some of the 
colored women to do some washing for us, but I guess we’ll not bother about 
it today; v —still backing away as he spoke. But the lady was not satisfied. 
Looking at us very sharply she asked: “Don’t you men want something to 
eat?” My heart gave a great thump at that, but to my inexpressible disgust, 
John, with his head thrown back and nose pointing skyward, answered, 
speaking very fast, “Oh, no, ma’am, not at all, ma’am, a thousand times 
obleeged, ma’am.” and continued his sneaking retreat. By this time I had 
hold of the cape of n.s overcoat and was plucking it in utter desperation. 
“John,” I said, speaking low, “what in thunder do you mean? Jais is the 
best chance we’ll ever have.” I was looking at the lady meanwhile in the 
most imploring manner, and she was regarding me with a kind of a pleas¬ 
ant, amused smile on her face. She saw, I guess, a mighty dirty looking boy, 
whose nose and face were pinched and blue with hunger, cold, loss of sleep, 
and nard knocks generally, and she brought the business to a head at one \ 
“You men come right in,” she said, as if she was the major-general com¬ 
manding the department. “We have just finished our dinner, but in a few 
minutes the servants can have something prepared for you,—and I think 
you are hungry.” John, with the most aggravating mock modesty that I 
ever saw in my life, began saying: “We are very much obleeged, ma’am, but 

we haven’t the slightest occasion in the world to eat, ma’am, and -” when 

I couldn’t stand it any longer for fear he would ruin everything after all. 
“Madam,” I said, “please don’t pay any attention to what my partner says, 
for we are most desperately hungry.” 

The lady laughed right out at that, and said, “I thought so; come in.” 

She led the way into the basement story of the house, where the dining 
room was, (all the rich people in the South have their dining rooms in the 
basement,) and there was a nice warm room, a dining table in the center, 
with the cloth and dishes yet on it, and a big fire place in one end of the 
room where a crackling wood fire was burning. I tell you, it was different 
from our muddy camp on the bleak hillside where the wind^j blows the 
smoke from our fires of green logs in every direction about every minute of 
the day. I sat down by the fire to warm my hands and feet, which were 
cold. A colored girl came in and commenced to arrange the table, passing 
back and forth from the dining room to the kitchen, and in a short time the 
lady told us that our dinner was ready, to sit up to the table, and eat hearti¬ 
ly. We didn’t wait for a second invitation that time. And, O, what a din¬ 
ner we had! There was a great pile of juicy, fried beefsteak, cooked to per¬ 
fection and tender as chicken, nice, warm light bread, a big cake of butter, 
stewed dried apples, cucumber pickles, two or three kinds of preserves, cof¬ 
fee with sugar and cream, and some of the best molasses I ever tasted,— 
none of this sour, scorched old sorghum stuff, but regular gilt-edge first-class 
New Orleans golden syrup, almost as sweet as honey. Then, to top off with, 
there was a nice stewed dried apple pie, and some kind of a custard in 
little dishes, something different from anything in that line that I had ever 
seen before, but mighty good. And then, in addition to all that, we were seat¬ 
ed on chairs, at a table with a white cloth on it, and eating out of china 



THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


plates and with knives and forks, a colored girl waiting on us, and the lady 
of the house siting there and talking to us as pleasantly as if we were Grant 
and Halleck in person. Under the influence of the good grub, John thawed 
out considerably, and made a full confession to the lady about his queer ac¬ 
tions at the beginning. He told her that we were going to the nigger quar¬ 
ters to try to get something to eat, and that when she came out and gave us 
such a kind invitation to come in the house, he was too much ashamed of 
our appearance to accept. That we had come up from Bolivar about a week 
before riding on top of the box cars where we got all covered with smoke, 
dust, and cinders, then ordered out to the front that night, then the fight with 
Forrest the next day, then the march towards the Tennessee river and back 
of about forty miles, and since then in camp with no shelter, tramping around 
in the mud, and sleeping on the ground, that on account of all these things 
we looked so rough and so dirty that he just felt ashamed to go into a nice 
house where handsome, well-dressed ladies were. Oh, I tell you, old John 
is no slouch, he patcned up matters remarkably wen. The lady listened at¬ 
tentively, said she knew we were hungry the moment she was us, that she 
had heard the soldiers were on short rations in consequence of the destruc¬ 
tion of the railroad, and turning towards me she went on to say: “'there 
was such a pitiful, hungry look on this boy’s face that it would have haunted 
me for a long time if I had let you go away without giving you a dinner 
Many a hungry soldier,” she continued, “both of the Northern and Southern 
army, has had something to eat at this table, and I expect many more will 
in the future, before this terrible and distressing war shall have come to an 
end.” She didn’t say a word, though, by which we could tell whether her 
sympathies were on the Union side or against us, and of course we didn’t 
try to find out. She was just the sweetest looking woman I have yet seen in 
the whole Southern Confederacy. If they have any angels anywhere that 
look Kinder, or sweeter, or purer, than she did, I would just like to see them 
trotted out. I guess she was about thirty-five years old. She was of medi¬ 
um height, a little on the plump order, with blue eyes, brown hair, a clear, 
ruddy complexion, and the whitest, softest* looking little hands I ever saw 
in my life. 

When we had finished our dinner, John and I thanked her ever so many 
times for her kindness, and then bade her a most respectful good-by. He 
and I both agreed on our way back to camp to say nothing about the lady and 
the nice dinner she gave us, because if we blowed about it, the result would 
probably be more hungry callers than her generosity could well afford. 

But these close times I guess are not going to last much longer. The 
talk in camp this evening is that we are going to have full rations once more 
in a day or two, that the railroad will soon be in running order again, and 
then we can just snap our fingers at old Forrest and his whole outfit. 

Well, I will bring my letter to a close. Don’t worry if you fail to get a 
letter from me now as regularly as before. Things are a trifle unsealed down 
here yet, and we may not be able to count on the usual regularity of the 
mails for some time to come. 

So good-by for this time. 

LEANDER STILLWELL. 


Soon after we returned to Jackson a detail of some from each company 
was sent to Bolivar and brought up our knapsacks and blankets, and we were 
then more comfortable. On December 29th, my company and two others of our 
regiment were sent by rail to Carroll station, about eight miles north of Jack- 
son. There had been a detachment of about a hundred men of the 
106th Illinois Infantry previously stationed here, guarding the rail¬ 
road, but Forrest captured them about December 20th, so, on our 
arrival we found nothing but a crude sort of stockade, and the usual 
rubbish of an old camp. There was no town there, it consisted only of a 



THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


73 


platform and a switch. Our life here was somewhat uneventful, and I recall 
now only two incidents which, possibly, are worth noticing. It has heretofore 
been mentioned how I happened to learn when on picket at night something 
about the nocturnal habits of different animals and birds. I had a somewhat 
comical experience in this respect while on guard one night near Carroll 
station. But it should be preceded by a brief explanation. It was no part of 
the duty of a non-commissioned officer to stand a regular tour of guard 
duty, with his musket in his hands. It was his province simply to exercise a 
general supervisory control over the men at his post, and especially to see 
that they relieved each other at the proper time. But it frequently happened 
in our regiment that our numbers present for duty were so diminish¬ 
ed, and the guard details were so heavy, that the sergeants and corporals had 
to stand as sentries just the same as the privates, and this was especially so 
at Carroll station. 

On the occasion of the incident about to be mentioned, the picket post 
was on the crest of a low ridge, or slight elevation, and under some big oak 
trees, by an old tumble-down deserted building which had at one time been 
a blacksmith shop. There were three of us on this post, and one of my turns 
came at midnight. I was standing by one of the trees, listening, looking, and 
meditating. The night was calm,, with a full moon. The space in our front, 
sloping down to a little hollow, was bare, but the ascending ground beyond 
was covered with a dense growth of young oaks which had not yet shed their 
leaves. We had orders to be extremely watchful and vigilant, as parties of 
the enemy were supposed to be in our vicinity. Suddenly I heard in front, 
and seemingly in the farther, edge of the oak forest, a rustling sound that 
soon increased in volume. Whatever was making the noise was coming my 
way, through the trees, and down the slope of the opposite ridge. The noise 
grew louder, and louder, until it sounded just like the steady tramp, over the 
leaves and dead twigs, of a line of marching men, with a front a hundred 
yards in width. I just knew there must be trouble ahead, and that the Phil¬ 
istines were upon me. But a sentinel who made a false alarm while on duty 
was liable to severe punishment, and, at any rate, would be laughed at all 
over the regiment, and never hear the last of it. So I didn’t wake up my 
comrades, but got in the shadow of the trunk of a tree, cocked my gun, 
and awaited developments. And soon they came. The advancing line emerg¬ 
ed from the forest into the moonlight, and it was nothing but a big drove of 
hogs out on a midnight foraging expedition for acorns, and the like! Well, 

I let down the hammer of my gun, and felt relieved,—and was mighty glad 
I hadn’t waked the other boys. But I still insist that this crackling, crashing 
uproar, made by the advance of the “hog battalion” through the underbrush 
and woods, under the circumstances mentioned, would have deceived “the 
very elect.” 

A few days later I was again on picket at the old blacksmith shop. Our 
orders were that at least once during the day one of the guard should make 
a scout out in front for at least half a mile, carefully observing all existing 
conditions, for the purpose of ascertaining if any parties of the enemy were 
hovering around in our vicinity. On this day, after dinner, I started out alone, 
on this little reconnoitering expedition. I had gone something more than 
half a mile from the post, and was walking along a dirt road with a corn¬ 
field on the left, and big woods on the right. About a hundred yards in front, 
the road turned square to the left, with a cornfield on each side. The corn 
had been gathered from the stalk, and the stalks were still standing. Glanc¬ 
ing to the left, I happened to notice a white cloth fluttering above the corn¬ 
stalks, at the end of a pole, and slowly moving my way. And peering through 
the tops of the stalks I saw coming down the road behind the white flag 
about a dozen Confederate cavalry! I broke into a run, and soon reached 
the turn in the road, cocked my gun, leveled it at the party, and shouted, 
“Halt!” They stopped, mighty quick, and the bearer of the flag called to 
me that they were a flag of truce party. I then said, “Advance, One!” Where¬ 
upon they all started forward. I again shouted “Halt!” and repeated the com- 


74 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


mand, “Advance, One!” The leader then rode up alone, I keeping 
my gun cocked, and at a ready, and he proceeded to tell me a 
sort of rambling, disjointed story about their being a flag of truce 
party, on business connected with an exchange of some wounded 
prisoners. I told the fellow that I would conduct him and his squad to 
my picket post, and then send word to our commanding officer, and he would 
take such action as he thought fit and proper. On reaching the post, I sent 
in one of the guards ^o the station to report to Lieut. Armstrong, in com¬ 
mand of our detachment, that there was a flag of truce party at my post who 
desired an interview with the officer in command at Carroll station. The 
Lieutenant soon arrived with an armed party of our men, and he and the Con¬ 
federate leader drew apart, and talked a while. This bunch of Confederates 
were all young men, armed with double-barreled shot-guns, and a decidedly 
tough looking outfit. They finally left my post, escorted by Lieut. Arm¬ 
strong and his guard, and I understood, in a general way, that he passed 
them on to some one higher in authority at some other point in our vicinity, 
possibly at Jackson, xhey may have been acting in good faith, but from the 
manner of their leader, and the story he told me, I have always believed that 
their use of a flag of truce was principally a device to obtain some military 
intelligence,—but of course, I do not know. My responsibility ended when 
Lieut. Armstrong reached my picket post in response to the message sent him. 

We remained at Carroll station until January 27, 1863, were then re¬ 
lieved by a detachment of the 62nd Illinois Infantry, and were sent by rail back 
to Bolivar, where we rejoined the balance of the regiment. We then resum¬ 
ed our former duty of guarding the railroad north to Toone’s station, and 
continued at this until the last of May, 1863. But before taking up what hap¬ 
pened then, it will be in order to speak of some of the changes that in the 
meantime had occurred among the commissioned officers of my company, and 
of the regiment. Capt. Reddish resigned April 3rd, 1863, first Lieutenant 
Daniel S. Keeley was promoted Captain in his place, and Thomas J. Warren, 
the sergeant-major of the regiment, was commissioned as first Lieutenant 
in Keeley’s stead. Lieut. Col. Fry resigned May 14, 1863, his place was taken 
by Major Simon P. Ohr; and Daniel Grass, Captain of Co. H, was made Maj¬ 
or. The resignations of both Fry and Reddish, as I always have understood, 
were because of ill-health. They were brave men, and their hearts were in 
the cause, but they simply were too old to endure the fatigue and hardships 
of a soldier’s life. But they each lived to a good old age. Col. Fry died in 
Greene county, Illinois, January 27th, 1881, aged nearly 82 years; and Capt. 
Reddish passed away in Dallas county, Texas, December 30th, 1881, having 
attained the psalmist’s limit of three score and ten. 


CHAPTER X. 


THE SIEGE OF VICKSBURG.—JUNE AND JULY, 1863. 

(feiENERAL GRANT closed up against Vicksburg on May 19, and on that 
day assaulted the Confederate defenses of the place, but without suc¬ 
cess. On the 22nd a more extensive assault was made, but it also failed, and 
it was then evident to Grant that Vicksburg would have to be taken by a 
siege. To do this he would need strong reinforcements, and they were forth¬ 
with sent him from various quarters. So it came to pass that we went also. 
On May 31st we climbed on the cars, headed for Memphis, and steamed away 
from old Bolivar—and I have never seen the place since. For my part, I 
was glad to leave. We had been outside of the main track of the war for 
several months, guarding an old railroad, while the bulk of the western army 
had been actively engaged in the stirring and brilliant campaign against 
Vicksburg, and we were all becoming more or less restless and dissatisfied. 
From my standpoint, one of the most mortifying things that can happen to 
a soldier in time of war is for his regiment to be left somewhere as a “guard,” 
while his comrades of tne main army are in the field of active operations, see¬ 
ing and doing “big things,” that will live in history. But, as before re¬ 
marked, the common soldier can only obey orders, and while some form the 
moving column, others necessarily have stationary duties. But at last the 
old 61st Illinois was on the wing,—and the Mississippi Central railroad could 
“go hang.” 

The regiment at this time was part of Gen. Nathan Kimball’s division of 
the 16th Corps, and the entire division left Tennessee to reinforce Grant at 
Vicksburg. We arrived at Memphis in the afternoon of the same day we left 
Bolivar, the distance between the two places being only about 72 miles. The 
regiment bivouacked that night on a sandbar on the water front of Memphis, 
which said bar extended from the water’s edge back to a high, steep sand- 
and-clay bank. And that, by the way, is the only night I have ever spent with¬ 
in the limits of the city of Memphis. While we were there on this occasion, 
I witnessed a pathetic incident which is yet as fresh and vivid in my memory 
as if it had happened only yesterday. Soon after our arrival I procured a 
pass for a few hours, and took a stroll through the city. While thus engaged 
I met two hospital attendants carrying on a stretcher a wounded Union sol¬ 
dier. They halted as I approached, and rested the stretcher on the side¬ 
walk. An old man was with them, apparently about sixty years old, of small 
stature and slight frame, and wearing the garb of a civilian. I stopped, and 
had a brief conversation with one of the stretcher-bearers. He told me that 
the soldier had been wounded in one of the recent assaults by the Union 
troops on the defenses of *Vicksburg, and, with others of our wounded, had 
just arrived at Memphis on a hospital boat. That the old gentleman present 
was the father of the wounded boy, and having learned at his home in some 
northern State of his son being wounded, had started to Vicksburg to care 
for him, that the boat on which he was journeying had rounded in at the 
Memphis wharf next to the above mentioned hospital boat, and tuat he hap¬ 
pened to see his son in the act of being carried ashore, and thereupon at once 
went to him, and was going with him to a hospital in the city. But the boy 
was dying, and that was the cause of the halt made by the stretcher-bearers. 
The soldier was quite young, seemingly not more than eighteen years old. 
He had an orange, which his father had given him, tightly gripped in his 

75 


76 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


right hand, which was lying across his breast. But, poor boy! it was mani¬ 
fest that that orange would never be tasted by him, as the glaze of death was 
then gathering on his eyes, and he was in a semi-unconscious condition. And 
the poor old father was fluttering around the stretcher, in an aimless, distract¬ 
ed manner, wanting to do something to help his boy*—but the time had come 
when nothing could be done. While thus occupied I heard him say in a low, 
broken voice, “He is—the only boy—I have.” This was on one of the prin¬ 
cipal streets of the city, and the sidewalks were thronged with people, sol¬ 
diers and civilians, rushing to and fro on their various errands,—and what 
was happening at this stretcher excited no attention beyond careless, pass¬ 
ing glances. A common soldier was dying,—that was all, nothing but “a leaf 
in the storm.” But for some reason or other the incident impressed me most 
sadly and painfully, i didn’t wait for the end, but hurried away,—tried to 
forget the scene, but couldn’t. 

On the evening of June 1st we filed on board the big, side-wheel steamer 
“Luminary,” which soon cast off from the wharf, and in company with other 
transports crowded with soldiers, went steaming down the Mississippi. Co. 
D, as usual, was assigned to a place on the hurricane deck of the boat. After 
we had stacked arms, and hung our belts on the muzzles of the guns, 1 
hunted up a corner on the forward part of the deck, sat down, looked at the 
river and the scenery along the banks,—and thought. There came vividly to 
my mind the recollection of the time, about fourteen months previous, when 
we started out from St. Louis, down the “Father of Waters,” bound for the 
“seat of war.” The old regiment, in every respect, had greatly changed since 
that time. Then we were loud, confident, and boastful. Now we had become 
altogether more quiet and grave in our demeanor. We had gradually realized 
that it was not a Sunday school picnic excursion we were engaged in, but 
a desperate and bloody war, and what the individual fate of each of us might 
be before it was over, no one could tell. There is nothing which, in my opin¬ 
ion, will so soon make a man out of a boy, as actual service in time of war. 
Our faces had insensibly taken on a stern and determined look, and soldiers 
who, a little over a year ago, were mere laughing, foolish boys, were now 
sober, steady, self-relying men. We had been taking lessons in what was, 
in many important respects, the best school in the world. 

Our voyage down the river was uneventful. We arrived at the mouth of 
the Yazoo river on the evening of June 3rd, there our fleet turned square to 
the left, and proceeded up that stream. Near the mouth of the Chickasaw 
Bayou, the fleet landed on the left bank of the stream, the boats tied up for 
the night, we went on the shore and bivouacked there that night. It was quite 
a relief to get on solid ground, and where we could stretch our legs and 
stroll around a little. Next morning we re-embarked at an early hour, and 
continued up the Yazoo. During the forenoon we learnt from one of the boat’s 
crew that we were approaching a point called “Alligator Bend,” and if we 
would be on the lookout we would see some alligators. None of us, so far as I 
know, had ever seen any of those creatures, and, of course, we were all agog to 
have a view of them. A few of the best shots obtained permission from the 
officers to try their muskets on the reptiles, in case any showed up. On 
reaching the bend indicated, there were the alligators, sure enough, lazily 
swimming about, and splashing in the water. They were sluggish, ugly look¬ 
ing things ,and apparently from six to eight feet long. Our marksmen opened 
hre at once. I had read in books at home that the skin of an alligator was 
so hard and tough that it was impervious to an ordinary rifle bullet. That 
may have been true as regards the round balls of the old small-bore rifle, 
but it was not the case with the conical bullets of our hard-shooting muskets! 
The boys would aim at a point just behind the fore-shoulder, the ball would 
strike the mark with a loud “whack,” a jet of blood would spurt high in the 
air, the alligator would give a convulsive flounce,—and disappear. It 
had doubtless got its medicine. But this “alligator practice” didn’t last long. 
Gen. Kimball, on learning the cause, sent word mighty quick from the head¬ 
quarters boat to “Stop that firing!”—and we stopped. 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


77 . 


About noon on the 4th we arrived at the little town of Satartia on 
the left bank of the Yazoo, and about 40 miles above its mouth; there the 
fleet halted, tied up, and the troops debarked, and marched out to the high¬ 
lands back of the town. We were now in a region that was new to us, and 
we soon saw several novel and strange things. There was a remarkable na¬ 
tural growth, called “Spanish moss,” that was very plentiful, and a most 
fantastic looking thing. It grew on nearly all the trees, was of a grayish- 
white color, with long, pendulous stems. The lightest puff of air would set 
it in motion, and on a starlight night, or when the moon was on the wane 
and there was a slight breeze, it presented a most ghostly and uncanny ap¬ 
pearance. And the woods were full of an unusual sort of squirrels, being 
just as black as crows. They were in size, as I now remember, of a grade 
intermediate the fox- and gray-squirrels we had at home. But all their ac¬ 
tions and habits appeared to be just the same as those of their northern 
cousins. And there was a most singular bird of the night that was quite 
numerous here, called the “Chuck-wills-widow,” on account of the resem¬ 
blance its note bore to those words. It belonged to the whippoorwill fam¬ 
ily, but was some larger. It would sound its monotonous call in the night 
for hours at a stretch, and I think its mournful cry, heard when alone, on 
picket at night out in dense, gloomy woods, is just the most lonesome, 
depressing strain I ever heard. 

On the afternoon of the 4th all our force advanced in the direction of 
the little town of Mechanicsburg, which lay a few miles back of the river. 
Those in the front encountered Confederate cavalry, and a lively little skirm¬ 
ish ensued, in which our regiment was not engaged. Our troops burnt Me¬ 
chanicsburg, and captured about forty of the Confederates. I was standing 
by the side of the road when these prisoners were being taken to the rear. 
They were all young chaps, fine, hearty looking fellows, and were the best 
looking litle bunch of Confederates I saw during the war. Early in the morn¬ 
ing of June 6th we fell into line and marched southwest, in the direction of 
Vicksburg. Our route, in the main, was down the valley of the Yazoo river. 
And it will be said here that this was the hottest, most exhausting march I 
was on during my entire service. In the first place, the weather was in- 
tensely hot. Then the road down the valley on which we marched mostly 
ran through immense fields of corn higher than our heads. The fields next 
the road were not fenced, and the corn grew close to the beaten track. Not 
the faintest breeze was stirring, and the hot, stiflling dust enveloped us like 
a blanket. Every now and then we would pass a soldier lying by the side 
of the road overcome by the heat, and unconscious, while one or two of his 
comrades would be standing by him, bathing his face and chest with water, 
and trying to revive him. I put green hickory leaves in my cap, and kept 
mem well saturated with water from my canteen. The leaves would re- 
'TuM^the moisture, and keep my head cool, and when they became stale and 
withered, would be thrown away, and fresh ones procured. Several men 
died on this march from sun-stroke, none, however, from our regiment, but 
we all suffered fearfully. And pure drinking water was very scarce too. It 
was pitiful to see the men struggling for water at the farm house wells we 
occasionally passed. In their frenzied desperation they would spill much 
more than they saved, and ere long would have the well drawn dry. But 
one redeeming feature about this march was—we were not hurried. There 
were frequent halts, to give the men time to breathe, and, on such oc¬ 
casions, if we were fortunate enough to find a pool of stagnant swamp- 
water, we would wash the dirt and dust from our faces and out of our eyes. 

As we trudged down the Yazoo valley, we continued to see things 
that were new and strange. We passed by fields of growing rice, and I saw 
many fig trees, loaded with fruit, but which was yet green. And in the yards of 
the most of the farm houses was a profusion of domestic flowers, such as 
did not bloom in the north, of wonderful color and beauty. But, on the oth¬ 
er hand, on the afternoon of the second day’s march, I happened to notice 
by the side of the road an enormous rattlesnake, which evidently had been 


78 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER 


killed by some soldier only a short time before we passed. It seemingly was 
between five and six feet long, and the middle of its body appeared to be as 
thick as a man’s thigh. Its rattles had been removed, presumably as a 
trophy. It was certainly a giant among rattlesnakes, and doubtless was an 
"old-timer.” 

On the evening of June 7th, about sundown, we arrived at Haines’ Bluff 
on the Yazoo river, and there went into camp. This point was about 
twelve miles north of Vicksburg, and had been strongly fortified by the Con¬ 
federates, but Grant’s movements had compelled them abandon their 
works without a battle. There had been a large number of the Confederates 
camped there, and the ground was littered with the trash and rubbish that 
accumulates in quarters. And our friends in gray had left some things in 
these old camps whicn ere long we all fervently wished they had taken widi 
them, namely, a most plentiful quantity of the insect known as "Pediculus 
vestimenti,” which forthwith assailed us as voraciously as if they had been 
on quarter rations, or less, ever since the beginning of the war. 

On June 16th we left Haines’ Bluff, and marched about two miles down 
the Yazoo river to Snyder’s Bluff, where we went into camp. Our duties 
here, as they had been at Haines,’ were standing picket, and constructing 
fortifications. We had the usual dress parade at sunset, but the drills were 
abandoned; we had more important work to do. General Joe Johnston, the 
Confederate commander outside of Vicksburg, was at Jackson, Mississippi, 
or in that immediate vicinity, and was collecting a force to move on Grant’s 
rear, in order to compel him to raise the siege. Grant thought that if John¬ 
ston attacked, it would be from the northeast, so he established a line of 
defense extending southeast, from Haines’ Bluff on the north to Black river 
on the south, and placed Gen. Sherman in command of this line. As Grant 
has said somewhere in his Memoirs, the country in this part of Mississippi 
"stands on edge.” That is to say, it consists largely of a succession of high 
ridges with sharp, narrow summits. Along this line of defense, the gen¬ 
eral course of these ridges was such that they were admirably adapted for 
defensive purposes. We went to work on the ridges with spades and mat¬ 
tocks, and constructed the strongest field fortifications that I ever saw dur¬ 
ing the war. We dug away the crests, throwing the dirt to the front, and 
made long lines of breastworks along our entire front, facing, of course, the 
northeast. Then, at various places, on commanding points, were erected 
strong redoubts for artillery, floored, and revetted on the inner walls, with 
thick and strong green lumber and timbers. On the exterior slopes of the 
ridges were dug three lines of trenches, or rifle pits, extending from near 
the base of the ridges almost to the summit, with intervals between the 
lines. All the trees and bushes in our front on the slopes of the ridges were 
cut down, with their tops outwards, thus forming a tangled abattis through 
which it looked as if a rabbit could hardly get through. And finally, on the 
inner slope of the ridges a little below their summits, was constructed a 
“covered way;” that is, a road dug along the sides of the ridges, and over 
which an army, with batteries of artillery, could have marched with per¬ 
fect safety. The purpose of these covered ways was to have a safe and 
sheltered road right along our rear by which any position of the line could 
be promptly reinforced, if necessary. 

Sometimes I would walk along the parapet of our works, looking off 
to the northeast where the Confederates were supposed to be, and I ardent¬ 
ly wished that they would attack us. Our defenses were so strong that in 
my opinion it would have been a physical impossibility for flesh and blood 
to have carried them. Had Johnston tried, he simply would have sacrificed 
thousands of his men without accomplishing anything to his own advantage. 

It will be said here that I have no recollection of having personally 
taken part in the construction of the fortifications above mentioned. In 
fact, I never did an hour’s work in the trenches, with spade and mattock 
during all my time. I never "took” willingly to that kind of soldiering. But 
there were plenty of the boys who preferred it to standing picket, because 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


79 


when on fatigue duty, as it was called, they would quit about sundown, and 
then get an unbroken night’s sleep. So, when it fell to my lot to be de¬ 
tailed for fatigue, I would swap with some one who had been assigned to 
picket,—he would do my duty, and I would perform his; we were both 
satisfied, and the fair inference is that no harm was thereby done to the 
cause. And it was intensely interesting to me, when on picket at night on 
the crest of some high ridge, to stand and listen to the roar of our cannon 
pounding at Vicksburg, and watch the flight of the shells from Grant’s siege 
guns, and from me heavy guns of our gunboats on the Mississippi. The 
shells they threw seemed principally to be of the “fuse” variety, and the 
burning fuse, as the shell flew through the air, left a stream of bright red 
light behind it like a rocket. I would lean on my gun and contemplate the 
spectacle with far more complacency and satisfaction than was felt when 
anxiously watching the practice on us by the other fellows at Salem Ceme¬ 
tery about six months before. 

There was another thing I was wont to observe with peculiar atten¬ 
tion, when on picket at night during the siege, namely: The operations of 
the Signal Corps. In the night time they used lighted lanterns in the trans¬ 
mission of intelligence, and they had a code by which the signals could be 
read with practically the same accuracy as if they had been printed words. 
The movements of the lights looked curious and strange, something elf¬ 
like, with a suspicion of witchcraft, or deviltry of some kind, about them. 
They would make all sorts of gyrations, up, down, a circle, a half circle to 
the right, then one to the left, and so on. Sometimes they would be unus¬ 
ually active. Haines’ Bluff would talk to Snyder’s; Snyder’s to Sherman’s 
headquarters; Sherman’s to Grant’s, and back and forth, all along the line. 
Occasionally at some station the lights would act almost like some nervous 
man talking at his highest speed in a perfect splutter of excitement,—and 
then they would seem as if drunk, or crazy. Of course, I knew nothing of 
the code of interpretation, and so understood nothing,—could only look, and 
speculate. In modern warfare the telephone has probably superseded the 
Signal Service, but the latter certainly played an important part in our 
Civil war. 

During the siege we lived high on some comestibles not included in the 
regular army rations. Corn was in the roasting ear state, and there were 
plenty of big fields of it beyond and near the picket lines, and we helped 
ourselves liberally. Our favorite method of cooking the corn was to roast 
it in the “shuck.” We would “snap” the ears from the stalk, leaving the 
shuck intact, daub over the outside a thin plaster of mud, (or sometimes 
just saturate the ears in water), then cover them with hot ashes and live 
coals. By the time the fire had consumed the shuck down to the last, or in¬ 
ner, layer, the corn was done, and it made most delicious eating. We had 
no butter to spread on it, but it was good enough without. And then the 
Dlackberries! I have never seen them so numerous and so large as they 
were there on those ridges in the rear of Vicksburg. I liked them best raw, 
taken right from the vine, but sometimes for a change, would stew them in 
my coffee can, adding a little sugar, and prepared in this manner they were 
fine. But, like the darkey’s rabbit,—they were good any way. The only 
serious drawback that we had on our part of the line was the unusual 
amount of fatal sickness that prevailed among the men. The principal 
types of disease were camp diarrhea and malarial fevers, resulting, in all 
probability, largely from the impure water we drank. At first we procured 
water from shallow and improvised wells that we dug in the hollows and 
ravines. Wild cane grew luxuriantly in this locality, attaining a height of 
fifteen or twenty feet, and all other wild vegetation was rank in propor¬ 
tion. The annual growth of all this plant life had been dying and rotting 
on the ground for ages, and the water would' filter through this decompos¬ 
ing mass, and become well-nigh poisonous. An order was soon issued that 
we should get all water for drinking and cooking purposes from the Yazoo 
river, and boil it before using, but it was impossible to compel complete 


80 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


obedience to such an order. When men got thirsty, they would drink 
whatever was handy,—orders to the contrary notwithstanding. And the wa¬ 
ter of the river was about as bad as the swamp water. I have read some¬ 
where that “Yazoo” is an Indian word, signifying “The River of Death,” and 
if so, it surely was correctly named. It is just my opinion, as a common 
soldier, that the epidemic of camp diarrhea could have been substantially pre¬ 
vented if all the men had eaten freely of blackberries. I didn’t have a touch of 
that disorder during all the time we were in that locality, and I attribute my 
immunity to the fact that I ate liberally of blackberries about every day. But 
camp diarrhea is something that gets in its work quick, and after the men 
got down with it, they possibly had no chance to get the berries. And all 
the time we were at Snyder, nearly every hour of the day, could be heard 
the doleful, mournful notes of the “Dead March,” played by the military 
bands, as some poor fellow was being taken to his long home. It seemed 
to me at the time, and does yet, that they should have left out that piece 
of music. It did no good, and its effect was very depressing, especially on 
the sick. Under such circumstances, it would seem that common sense, if 
exercised, would have dictated the keeping dumb of such saddening funereal 
strains. 

Sometime during the latter part of June the regiment was paid two 
months’ pay by Major C. L. Bernay, a Paymaster of the U. S. Army. He 
was a fine old German, of remarkably kind and benevolent appearance, and 
looked more like a venerable Catholic priest than a military man. After he had 
paid off the regiment, his escort loaded his money chest, and his personal stuff 
into an ambulance, and he was soon ready to go to some other regiment. 
Several of our officers had assembled to bid him good-by, and I happened 
to be passing along, and witnessed what transpired. The few farewell re¬ 
marks of the old man were punctuated by the roar of the big guns of our 
army and navy pounding away at Vicksburg, and the incident impressed me 
as somewhat pathetic. “Goot-by, Colonel,” said Major Bernay, extending 
his hand. (Boom!) “Goot-by, Major;” (Boom!) “Goot-by, Captain;” (Boom!) 
and so on, to the others. Then, with a wave of his hand to all the little 
group, “Goot-by, shentlemens, all!” (Boom!) “Maybe so (Boom!) we meet 
not again.” (Boom, boom, boom!) It was quite apparent that he was think¬ 
ing of the so-called “fortunes of war.” Then he sprang into his ambulance, 
and drove away. His prediction proved true—we never met again. 

The morning of the Fourth of July opened serene and peaceful, more so, 
in fact, than in old times at home, for with us not even the popping of a 
fire-cracker was heard. And the stillness south of us continued as the day 
wore on,—the big guns of the army and navy remained absolutely quiet. 
Our first thought was that because the day was a national holiday, Grant 
had ordered a cessation of the firing in order to give his soldiers a day of 
needed rest. It was not until some time in the afternoon that a rumor be¬ 
gan to circulate among the common soldiers that Vicksburg had surrender¬ 
ed, and about sundown we learnt that such was the fact. So far as I saw 
or heard, we indulged in no whooping or yelling over the event. We had 
been confident, all the time, that the thing would finally happen, so we were 
not taken by surprise. There was a feeling of satisfaction and relief that 
the end had come, but we took it coolly, and as a matter of course. 

On the same day that Vicksburg surrendered Grant started the greater 
part of his army, under the command of Gen. Sherman, in the direction of 
Jackson for the purpose of attacking Gen. Johnston. Our division, however, 
remained at Snyder’s until July 12th, when we left there, marching south¬ 
east. I remember this march especiallv, from the fact that the greater 
part of it was made during the night. This was done in order to avoid the 
excessive heat that prevailed in the daytime. As we plodded along after 
stlnset, at route step, and arms at will, a low hum of conversation’ could 
be heard, and occasionally a loud laugh, “that spoke the vacant mind.” 
By ten o’clock we were tired, (we had been on the road since noon), and 
moreover, getting very sleepy. Profound silence now prevailed in the ranks 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 81 


broken only by the rattle of canteens against the shanks of the bayonets, 
and the heavy, monotonous tramp of the men. As Walter Scott has said 
somewhere in one of his poetical works: 

“No cymbal clashed, no clarion rang, 

Still were the pipe and drum; 

Save heavy tread and armor’s clang, 

The sullen march was dumb.” 

The column halted about midnight, we bivouacked in the woods by the 
road, and I was asleep about as soon as I struck the ground. 

We resumed the march early in the morning, and during the forenoon 
arrived at Messinger’s ford, on Black river, where we went into camp. We 
remained here only until July 17, and on that day marched a few miles 
south to the railroad crossing on Black river, and bivouacked on the west 
bank of the stream. The Confederates during the campaign had thrown up 
breast works of cotton bales, which evidently had extended for quite a dis¬ 
tance above and below the railroad crossing. When our fellows came along 
they tore open the bales and used the cotton to sleep on, and when we ar¬ 
rived at the place the fleecy stuff was scattered over the ground, in some 
places half-knee deep, all over that, portion of the river bottom. It looked 
like a big snow fall. Cotton, at that very time, was worth one dollar a pound 
in the New York market, and scarce at that. A big fortune was there in the 
dirt, going to waste, but we were not in the cotton business just then, so 
it made no difference to us. At the beginning of the war, it was confident¬ 
ly asserted by the advocates of the secession movement that “Cotton was 
king;” that the civilized world couldn’t do without it, and as the South had 
a virtual monopoly of the stuff, the need of it would compel the European 
nations to recognize the independence of the Southern Confederacy, and 
which would thereby result in the speedy and complete triumph of the Con¬ 
federate cause. But in thus reasoning, they ignored a law of human nature. 
Men, under the pressure of necessity, can get along without many things which 
they have previously regarded as indispensable. At this day, in my opin¬ 
ion, many of the alleged wants of mankind are purely artificial, and we 
would be better off if they were cut out altogether. Aside from various 
matters of food and drink and absurdities in garb and ornaments, numbers 
of our rich women in eastern cities regard life as a failure unless they each 
possess a thousand dollar pet dog, decorated with ribbons and diamond 
ornaments and honored at dog-functions with a seat at the table, where, 
on such occasions, pictures of the dogs, with their female owners sitting 
by them, are taken and reproduced in quarter-page cuts in the Sunday edi¬ 
tions of the daily papers, n these women would knock the dogs in the head 
and bring into the world legitimate babies, (or even illegitimate, for their 
husbands are probably of the capon breed,) then they might be of some 
use to the human race; as it is they are a worthless, unnatural burlesque 
on the species. But this has nothing to do with the war, or the 61st Illinois, 
so I will pass on. 

While we were at the Black river railroad bridge thousands of paroled 
Confederate soldiers captured at Vicksburg passed us, walking on the rail¬ 
road track, going eastward. We had strict orders to abstain from making 
to them any insulting, or taunting remarks, and so far as I saw, these or¬ 
ders were faithfully obeyed. The Confederates looked hard. They were 
ragged, sallow, emaciated, and seemed depressed and disconsolate. They 
went by us with downcast looks, and in silence. I heard only one of them 
make any remark whatever, and he was a little drummer boy, apparently 
not more than fifteen years old. He tried to say something funny,—but it 
was a dismal failure. 

While in camp at the railroad crossing on Black river, a most agreeable 
incident occurred, the pleasure of which has not been lessened by the flight of 
time, but rather augmented. But to comprehend it fully, some preliminary 


82 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


explanation might be advisable. Before the war there lived a few miles from 
our home, near the Jersey Landing settlement, a quaint and most interesting 
character, of the name of Benjamin F. Slaten. He owned and lived on a 
farm, but had been admitted to the bar, and practiced law to some extent, 
as a sort of a side-line. But I think that until after the war his practice, in 
the main, was confined to the counts of justices of the peace. He was a 
shrewd, sensible old man, of a remarkably kind and genial disposition, but just 
about the homeliest looking individual I ever saw. And he had a most sin¬ 
gular, squeaky sort of a voice, with a kind of a nasal twang to it, which, if 
heard once could never be forgotten. He was an old friend of my father’s, 
and had been his legal adviser (so far as his few and trifling necessities in 
that line required) from time immemorial. And, for a year or so prior to the 
outbreak of the war my thoughts had been running much on the science of 
law, and I had a strong desire, if the thing could be accomplished, to some¬ 
time be a lawyer myself. So, during the period aforesaid, whenever I would 
meet “Uncle Ben,” (as we frequently called him), I would havb a lot of ques¬ 
tions to fire at him about some law points, which it always seemed to give 
him much pleasure to answer. I remember yet one statement he made to 
me that later, (and sometimes to my great chagrin,) I found out was unde¬ 
niably true. “Leander,” said he, “if ever you get into the practice of law, 
you’ll find that it is just plum full of little in-trick-ate pints.” (But things 
are not as bad now in that respect as they were then.) The war ensued, and 
in September, 1862, he entered the service as Captain of Co. K, of the 97th Il¬ 
linois Infantry. He was about forty-two years old at this time. In due course 
of events the regiment was sent south, and became a part of the Army of 
the Tennessee, but the paths of the 61st and the 97th were on different lines, 
and I never met Capt. Slaten in the field until the happening of the incident 
now to be mentioned. 

When we were at Black river I was on picket one night about a mile or 
so from camp, at a point on an old country road. Some time shortly after 
midnight while I was curled up asleep in a corner of the old worm fence by 
the side of the road, I was suddenly awakened by an energetic shake, ac¬ 
companied by the loud calling of my name. I sprang to my feet at once, 
thinking maybe some trouble was afoot, and, to my surprise, saw Capt. 
Keeley standing in front of me, with some other gentleman. “Stillwell,” said 
Keeley, “here’s an old friend of yours. He wanted to see you, and being 
pressed for time, his only chance for a little visit was to come to you on the 
picket line.” My caller stood still, and said nothing. I saw that he was an 
officer, for his shoulder straps were plainly visible, but I could not be sure 
of his rank, for there was no moon, and the night was dark. He was wear¬ 
ing an old “sugar-loaf” hat, seemingly much decayed, his blouse was cover¬ 
ed with dust, and, in general, he looked tough. His face was covered with 
a thick, scraggy beard, and under all these circumstances, it was impossible 
for me to recognize him. I was very anxious to do so, in view of the trouble 
the officer had taken to come away out on the picket line, in the middle of 
the night, to see me, but I just couldn’t, and began to stammer a sort of 
apology about the darkness of the night hindering a prompt recognition, 
when the “unknown” gave his head a slant to one side, and, in his never for- 
getable voice, spoke thus to Keeley: “I told you he wouldn’t know me.” “I 
know you now,” said I, “I’d recognize that voice if I heard it in Richmond! 
This is Capt. Ben Slaten, of the 97th Illinois;” and springing forward I seized 
his right hand with both of mine, while he threw his left arm about my neck 
and fairly hugged me. It soon came out in the conversation that ensued 
that his regiment had been with Sherman in the recent move on Jackson, 
that it was now returning with that army to the vicinity of Vicksburg, and 
had arrived at Black river that night. That he had at once hunted up the 
61st Illinois to have a visit with me, and ascertaining that I was on picket 
had persuaded Capt. Keeley to come with him to the picket line, as his regi¬ 
ment would leave early in the morning on the march, hence this would be his 
only opportunity for a brief meeting. And we all certainly had a most de- 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


83 


lightful visit with the old Captain. From the time of his arrival until his 
departure there was no sleeping, by anybody, on that picket post. We sat 
on the ground in a little circle around him, and listened to his comical and 
side-splitting stories of army life, and incidents in camp and field generally. 
He was an inimitable story teller, and his peculiar tone and manner added 
immensely to the comicality of his anecdotes. And somehow he had the 
happy faculty of extracting something ludicrous, or absurd, from what the 
generality of men would have regarded as a very serious affair. He did the 
most of the talking that night, while the rest of us sat there and fairly 
screamed with laughter. It was well known and understood that there were 
no armed Confederates in our vicinity, so we ran no risk in being a little 
careless. Finally, when the owls began tuning up for day, the old Captain 
bade us good-by, and trudged away, accompanied by Capt. Keeley. 

To fully comprehend this little episode, it is, perhaps, necessary to have 
some understanding and appreciation of how a soldier away down south, 
far from home and the friends he had left behind, enjoyed meeting some 4©ar 
old friend of the loved neighborhood of home. It was almost equal to having 
a short furlough. 

I never again met Capt. Slaten during the war. He came out of it 
alive, with an excellent record,—and about thirty-seven years after the close 
died at his old home in Jersey county, Illinois, sincerely regretted and mourn¬ 
ed by a large circle of acquaintances and friends. 


CHAPTER XI. 

HELENA, ARKANSAS.—LIFE IN A HOSPITAL.—AUGUST, 1863. 


(^ENERAL SHERMAN soon drove General Johnston out of Jackson, and 
beyond Pearl river, and then his column returned to the vicinity of 
Vicksburg, On July 22nd, our division marched back to Snyder’s Bluff, and 
resumed our old camp. But we had not been here long before it was rumor¬ 
ed that we were under marching orders, and would soon leave for some 
point in Arkansas. Sure enough, on July 29th, we marched to the Yazoo river 
and filed on board the side-wheel steamer “Sultana,” steamed down the river 
to its mouth, and there turned up the Mississippi, headed north. I will re- 
ark here that one of the most tragical and distressing incidents of the war 
was directly connected with a frightful disaster that later befell the above 
named steamboat. It left Vicksburg for the north on or about April 25, 1865, 
having on board nearly 1900 Union soldiers, all of whom, (with a few ex¬ 
ceptions), were paroled prisoners. On the morning of April 27th, while near 
Memphis, the boilers of the boat exploded, and it was burnt to the water’s 
edge. Over 1100 of these unfortunate men perished in the wreck, in differ¬ 
ent ways; some scalded to death by escaping steam, some by fire, others, 
(and the greatest number,) by drowning. Besides the soldiers, cabin pass¬ 
engers and members of the boat’s crew, to the number of about 140, also 
perished. It was the greatest disaster, of that kind, that ever occurred on 
the Mississippi. 

It may, perhaps, be noticed that the regiment is leaving the vicinity of 
Vicksburg without my saying a word about the appearance, at that time, of 
that celebrated stronghold. There is good reason for it, namely: it so hap¬ 
pened that we never were in the place. We were close to it, on the north, and 
on the east, but that was all. And I never yet have seen Vicksburg, and it 
is not probable now that I ever shall. 

We arrived at Helena, Arkansas, on July 31st, debarked and went into 
camp near the bank of the river, about two miles below the town. There 
were no trees in our camp except a few cottonwoods; the ground on which 
we walked, sat, and slept, was, in the main, just a mass of hot sand, and we 
got water for drinking and cooking purposes from the Mississippi river. The 
country back of the town, and in that immediate vicinity generally, was wild, 
and thinly settled, and had already been well foraged, so we were restricted 
to the ordinary army diet, of which one of the principal items, as usual, was 
fat sow-belly. I never understood why we were not allowed to camp in the 
woods west of the town. There was plenty of high, well-shaded space th<*re, 
and we soon could have sunk wells that would have furnished cool, palat¬ 
able water. But this was not done, and the regiment remained for about two 
weeks camped on the river bank, in the conditions above described. A na¬ 
tural result was that numbers of the men were prostrated by malarial fever, 
and this time I happened to be one of them. I now approach a painful 
period of my army career. I just lay there, in a hot tent, on the sand,—O, so 
sick! But I fought off going to the hospital as long as possible. I had a 
superstitious dread of an army hospital. I had seen so many of the boys 
loaded into ambulances, and hauled off to such a place,—who never return¬ 
ed, that I was determined never to go to one if it could be avoided in any 
honorable way. But the time came when it was a military necessity that I 
should go, and there was no alternative. The campaign that was in con¬ 
templation was a movement westward against the Confederates under Gen 

84 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER, 85 


Sterling Price at Little Rock, with the intention of capturing that place and 
driving the Confederates from the State. The officer in command of the 
Union forces was Gen. Frederick Steele. Marching orders were issued, fix¬ 
ing the 13th of August as the day our regiment would start. All the sick 
who were unable to march, (and I was among that number,) were to be sent 
to the Division hospital. So, on the morning before the regiment moved, an 
ambulance drove up to my tent, and some of the boys carried me out and 
put me in the vehicle. Capt. Keeley was standing by, he pressed my hand 
and said, “Good-by, Stillwell; brace up! You’ll be all right soon.” I was 
feeling too wretched to talk much, I only said, “Good-by, Captain;” and let 
it go at that. Later, when i rejoined the regiment, Keeley told me that when 
he bade me good-by that morning he never expected to see me again. 

Our Division Hospital, to which I was taken, consisted of a little village 
of wall tents in the outskirts of Helena. The tents were arranged in rows, 
with perhaps from fifteen to twenty in a row, with their ends pinned back 
against the sides, thus making an open space down an entire row. The sick 
men lay on cots, of which there was a line on each side of the interior of 
the tents, with a narrow aisle between. I remained at the hospital eight 
days, and was very sick the most of the time, and retain a distinct recol¬ 
lection of only a few things. But, , aside from men dying all around me, both 
day and night, nothing important happened. All the accounts that I have 
read of this movement of Gen. Steele’s on Little Rock agree in stating that 
the number of men he left sick at Helena and other places between there 
and Little Rock was extraordinary and beyond all usual proportion. And 
from what I saw myself, I think these statements must be true. And a 
necessary consequence of this heavy sick list was the fact that it must have 
been impossible to give the invalids the care and attention they should have 
received. We had but few attendants, and they were soldiers detailed for 
that purpose who were too feeble to march, but were supposed to be capable 
of rendering hospital service. And the medical force left with us was so 
scanty that it was totally inadequate for the duties they were called on to 
perform. O, those nights were so long! At intervals in the aisle a bayonet 
would be stuck in the ground with a lighted candle in its socket, and when a 
light went out, say after midnight, it stayed out, and we would toss around 
on those hard cots in a state of semi-darkness until daylight. If any at¬ 
tendants moved around among us in the later hours of the night I never saw 
them. We had well-water to drfnk, which, of course, was better than that 
from the river, but it would soon become insipid and warm, and sometimes, 
especially during the night, we didn't have enough of that. On one occasion, 
about midnight, soon after I was taken to the hospital, I was burning with fever, 
and became intolerably thirsty for a drink of water. No attendants were in 
sight, and the candles had all gone out but one or two which emitted only 
a sort of flickering light, that barely served to render “darkness visible.” My 
suffering became well-nigh unendurable, and I could stand it no longer. I got 
up and staggered to the door of the tent and looking about me saw not far 
away a light gleaming through a tent that stood apart from the others. I 
made my way to it, as best I could, and went in. A young fellow, maybe an 
assistant surgeon, was seated at the further end of a little desk, writing. My 
entrance was so quiet that he did not hear me, and walking up to him, I 
said, in a sort of a hollow voice: “I want—a drink—of water.” The fellow 
dropped his pen, and nearly fell off his stool. The only garment I had on 
was a white, sleazy, sort of cotton bed-gown which they garbed us all in when 
we were taken to the hospital; and this chap’s eyes, as he stared at me, 
looked as if they would pop out of his head. Perhaps he thought I was 
a “gliding ghost.” But he got me some water, and I drank copiously. I 
don’t clearly remember what followed. It seems to me that this man help¬ 
ed me back to my tent, but I am not sure. However, I was in the same old 
cot next morning. 

The fare at the hospital was not of a nature liable to generate an at¬ 
tack of the gout, but I reckon those in charge did the best they could. The 


86 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


main thing seemed to be a kind of thin soup, with some grains of rice, or 
barley, in it. What the basis of it was I dont know. I munched a hardtack 
occasionally, which was far better than the soup. But my appetite was 
quite scanty, anyhow. One day we each had at dinner, served in our tin 
plates, about two or three tablespoonfuls of preserved currants, for which 
it was said we were indebted to the U. S. Sanitary Commission. It seemed 
that a boat load of such goods came down the river, in charge of a committee 
of ladies, destined for our hospitals at Vicksburg. The boat happened to 
make a temporary stop at Helena, and the ladies ascertained that there was 
at the hospitals there great need of sanitary supplies, so they donated us 
the bulk of their cargo. I will remark here that that little dab of currants 
was all the U. S. Sanitary stuff I consumed during my army service. I 
am not kicking; merely stating the fact. Those goods very properly went to 
the hospitals, and as my stay therein was brief, my share of the delicacies 
was consequently correspondingly slight. 

As regards the medicine given us in the hospital at Helena, my recollec¬ 
tion is that it was almost entirely quinine, and the doses were frequent and 
copious, which I suppose was all right. 

There was a boy in my company of about my age; a tall, lanky chap, 
named John Barton. He had lived in our neighborhood at home, and we were 
well acquainted prior to our enlistment. He was a kind hearted, good sort 
of a fellow, but he had, while in the army, one unfortunate weakness,—the 
same being a voracious appetite for intoxicating liquor. And he had a re¬ 
markable faculty for getting the stuff, under any and all circumstances. He 
could nose it out, in some way, as surely and readily as a bear could find a 
bee-tree. But to keep the record straight, I will further say that after his 
discharge he turned over a new leaf, quit the use of whisky, and lived a 
strictly temperate life. He was “under the weather” when the regiment left 
Helena, and so was detailed to serve as a nurse at the hospital, and was 
thus engaged in my tent. Since making that bad break at Owl Creek I had 
avoided whisky as if it were a rattlesnake, but somehow, while here in the 
hospital, I began to feel an intense craving for some “spiritus frumenti,” as 
the surgeons called it. So one day I asked John Barton if he couldn’t get 
me a chnteenful of whisky. He said he didn’t know, was afraid it would be 
a difficult job,—but to give him my canteen, and he would try. That night, 
as late maybe as one or two o’clock, and when the lights were nearly all 
out, as usual, I heard some one stealthily walking up the aisle, and stopping 
occasionally at different cots, and presently I heard a hoarse whisper, “Still¬ 
well! Stillwell!” “Here;” I answered, in the same tone. The speaker then 
came to me,—it was old John, and stooping down, he whispered, “By God 
I’ve got it!” “Bully for you, John!” said I. He raised me to a sitting pos¬ 
ture, removed the cork, and put the mouth of the canteen to my lips,—and 
I drank about as long as I could hold my breath. John took a moderate 
swig himself, then carefully put the canteen in my knapsack, which was 
serving as my pillow, cautioned me to keep it concealed to avoid its being 
stolen, and went away. I was asleep in about five minutes after my head 
struck my knapsack, and slept all the balance of the night just like a baby. 
On waking up, I felt better, too, and wanted something to eat. However, let 
no one think, who may read these lines, that I favor the use of whisky as 
a medicine, for I don’t. But the situation in those Helena hospitals was un¬ 
usual and abnormal. The water was bad, our food was no good, and very 
unsatisfactory, and the conditions generally were simply wretched. I am 
not blaming the military authorities. They doubtless did the best they 
could. It seemed to me that I was getting weaker every day. It looked as 
if something had to be done, and acting on the maxim that “desperate cases 
require desperate remedies,” I resorted for the time being to the whisky 
treatment. I made one unsuccessful attempt afterwards to get some to 
serve as a tonic, which perhaps may be mentioned later, and then forever 
abandoned the use of the stuff for any purpose. 

Immediately succeeding the above mentioned incident, the fever let up 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


87 


on me, and I began to get better, though still very weak. My great concern, 
right now, was to rejoin the regiment just as soon as possible. It was tak¬ 
ing part in an active campaign, in which fighting was expected, and the idea 
was intolerable that the other boys should be at the front, marching ana 
fighting, while I was back in the rear playing the part of a “hospital pimp.” 
It was reported that a steamboat was going to leave soon, via Mississippi 
and White rivers, with convalescents for Steele’s army, and I made up my 
mind to go on that boat, at all hazards. But to accomplish that it was neces¬ 
sary, as I was informed, to get a written permit from the Division Surgeon, 
Maj. Shuball York, of the 54th Illinois Infantry. So one morning, bright and 
early, I blacked my shoes and brushed up my old cap and clothing gener¬ 
ally, and started to Maj. York’s headquarters to get the desired permission. 
He was occupying a large two-story house, with shade trees in the yard, in 
the residence part of town, and his office was in the parlor, in the first story 
of the building. I walked in, and found an officer of the rank of Major, 
seated at a table, engaged in writing. I removed my cap and standing at‘at¬ 
tention, saluted him, and asked if this was Maj. York, and was answered 
in the affirmative. I had my little speech carefully prepared, and proceed¬ 
ed at once to deliver it, as follows: 

“My name is Leander StillwelL; I am a sergeant of Co. D, of the 61st 
Illinois Infantry, which is now with Gen. Steele’s army. The regiment march¬ 
ed about a week ago, and, as I was then sick with a fever, I could not go, 
but was sent to the Division Hospital, here in Helena. I am now well, and 
have come to you to request a permit to enable me to rejoin my regiment.” 

The Major looked at me closely while I was speaking, and after I had 
concluded he remained silent for a few seconds, still scrutinizing me intent¬ 
ly. Then he said, in a low, and very kind tone: “Why, sergeant, you are 
not able for duty, and won’t be for some time. Stay here till you get a lit¬ 
tle stronger.” 

His statement was a bitter disappointment to me. I stood there in sil¬ 
ence a little while, twisting and turning, with trembling hands, my old faded 
and battered cap. I finally managed to say, “I want—to go—to— my regi¬ 
ment —and here my lips began to tremble, and I got no further. Now 
don’t laugh at this. It was simply the case of a boy, weak and broken down 
by illness, who was homesick to be with his comrades. The Major did not 
immediately respond to my last remark, but continued to look at me intent¬ 
ly. Presently he picked up his pen, and said: “I am inclined to think that 
the best medical treatment for you is to let you go to your regiment;” and 
he thereupon wrote and handed me the permit, which was quite brief, con¬ 
sisting only of a few lines. I thanked him, and departed with a light heart. 

I will digress here for a moment to chronicle, with deep sorrow, the sad 
fate that ultimately befell the kind and noble surgeon, Maj. York. While he, 
with his regiment, was home on veteran furlough, in March, 1864, an organiz¬ 
ed gang of Copperheads made a dastardly attack on some of the soldiers of 
the regiment at Charleston, Illinois, and murdered Maj. York, and five pri¬ 
vates, and also severely wounded the Colonel, Greenville M. Mitchell, and 
three privates. (See Official Records, War of the Rebellion, Serial No. 57, 
page 629, et seq.). 

The war ended over half a century ago, and the feelings and passions 
engendered thereby, as between the people of the Nation, and those of the 
late Confederate States, have well-nigh wholly subsided, which is right. But 
nevertheless I will set it down here that in my opinion the most “undesir¬ 
able citizens” that ever have afflicted our country, were the traitorous, ma¬ 
lignant breed that infested some portions of the loyal States during the 
war, and were known as “Copperheads.” The rattlesnake gives warning be¬ 
fore it strikes, but the copperhead snake, of equally deadly venom, gives 
none, and the two-legged copperheads invariably pursued the same course. 
They deserved the name. 

On leaving Maj. York’s office I returned to the hospital and gathered up 
my stuff, which included my gun, cartridge box, knapsack, haversack, and 



88 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


canteen,—and said good-by to Barton, and the other boys I knew. Then to 
the commissary tent, and exhibiting my permit, was furnished with five 
days’ rations of hardtack, bacon, coffee, and sugar. Thence to the river 
landing, and on to the steamboat “Pike,” which was to take the present batch 
of convalescents to Steele’s army. 


CHAPTER XII. 

DEVALL’S BLUFF.—LITTLE ROCK.—AUGUST--OCTOBER, 1863. 


^Q\N THE MORNING OF AUGUST 21st, the “Pike” cast off, and started 
down the Mississippi river. On reaching the mouth of White river, 
we turned up that stream, and, on August 26tli, arrived at Devali’s Bluff, on 
the west bank, where we debarked. Our trip from Helena was slow, and 
uneventful. The country along White river from its mouth to Devall’s Bluff 
was wild, very thinly settled, and practically in a state of nature. We passed 
only two towns on the stream—St. Charles, and Clarendon, both small places. 
On different occasions I saw several bears and deer on the river bank, t.hev 
having come there for water. Of course they ran back into the woods when 
the boat got near them. All of Steele’s infantry was temporarily in camp 
at Devall’s Bluff, while his cavalry was some miles further out. I soon 
found the old regiment, and received a warm welcome from all of Co. D. 
They were much surprised to see me. as they had no idea that I would be 
able to leave the hospital so soon. They had had no fighting on this cam¬ 
paign, so far, and they said that their march across the country from Helena 
had been monotonous and devoid of any special interest. 

During my first night at Devall’s Bluff there came a heavy and protracted 
rain storm, and on waking up the following morning I found myself about 
half* hip-deep in a puddle of water. And this was the beginning of more trou¬ 
ble. My system was full of quinine taken to break the fever while in the hos¬ 
pital, and the quinine and this soaking in the water did not agree. In a 
short time I began to feel acute rheumatic twinges in the small of my back, 
and in a day or two was practically helpless, and could not get up, or walk 
around, without assistance. 

The regiment left Devall’s Bluff, with the balance of the army, on Sen- 
tember 1st, advancing towards Little Rock. I was totally unable to march 
but was determined to go along some way, and, with Capt. Keeley’s per¬ 
mission, the boys put me into one of the regimental wagons. This waaon 
happened to be loaded with barrels of pickled pork, standing on end. and 
my seat was on top of one of the barrels, and it was just the hardest, most 
painful day’s ride in a wagon I ever endured. I was suffering intensely from 
acute rheumatism in the “coupling region,” and in this condition trying to 
keep steady on the top of a barrel, and being occasionally violently pitched 
against the ends of the barrel staves when the wagon gavp a lurch into a 
deep rut,—which would give me well-nigh intolerable pain. To make matters 
worse, the day was very hot, so, when evening came and the column halted, 
I was mighty near “all in.” But some of the boys helped me out and laid 
me on my blanket in the shade, and later brought me some supper of hard¬ 
tack, bacon, and coffee. Except the rheumatism, I was all right, and had a 
good appetite, and after a hearty supper, felt better. Next morning, in con¬ 
sequence of the active exertions of Capt. Keeley in the matter, an ambulance 
drove up where I was lying, and I was loaded into it, and O! it was a luxury! 
Poor Enoch Wallace had been taken down with a malarial fever, and hn 
was also a passenger, likewise two other soldiers whose names I have for¬ 
gotten. Enoch had been promoted to secofid lieutenant and had been act¬ 
ing as such for some months, but his commission was not issued until Sep¬ 
tember 3rd,—a day when he was a very sick man. From this on, until Sen- 
tember 10th, the day our forces captured Little Rock, my days were spent in 


90 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


the ambulance. At night, the sick of each division, (of whom there were 
hundreds), would bivouac by the side of some lagoon, or small water course, 
the attendants would prepare us some supper, and the surgeons would 
make their rounds, administering such medicine as the respective cases re¬ 
quired. The prevailing type of sickness was malarial fever, for which, the 
sovereign specific seemed to be quinine. As for me, I was exempt from the 
taking of medicine, for which I was thankful. The surgeon after inquiry 
into my case, would sententiously remark, “Ah, acute rheumatism;” and 
pass on. I was at a loss to understand this seeming neglect, but a sort of 
explanation was given me later which will be mentioned in its order. The 
food that was given the sick was meager and very unsatisfactory, but it was 
probably the best that could be furnished, under the circumstances. Each 
man was given an oyster-can full of what seemed to be beef-soup, with some 
rice or barley grains in it. By the time it got around to us there was us¬ 
ually a thin crust of cold tallow on the top, and the mere looks of the mess 
were enough to spoil one’s appetite,—if he had any. One evening Wallace 
and I were sitting side by side with our backs against a tree, when an at¬ 
tendant came to us and gave each one his can of the decoction above men¬ 
tioned. It was comical to see the look of disgust that came over the face 
of poor Enoch. He turned towards me, and tilting his can slightly to en¬ 
able me to see the contents, spoke thus: “Now, ain’t this nice stuff to give 
a sick man?. I’ve a good notion to throw the whole business in that fellow’s 
face;” (referring to the attendant). “The trouble with you, Enoch,” I said, 
“is that you are losing your patriotism, and I shouldn’t be surprised if you’d 
turn Secesh yet. Kicking on this rich, delicious soup! Next thing you’ll be 
ordering turtle-soup and clamoring for napkins and finger-bowls. You remind 
me of a piece of poetry I have read somewhere, something like this: 

‘Jeshuren waxed fat, 

And down his belly hung, 

Against the government he kicked, 

And high his buttocks 'flung’.” 

The poor old fellow leaned back against the tree, and indulged in a long, 
silent laugh that really seemed to do him good. I would joke with him, aft¬ 
er this fashion, a good deal, and long afterwards he told me that he believed 
he would have died on that march if I hadn’t kept his spirits up by making 
ridiculous remarks. (In speaking of Wallace as “old,” the word is used in 
a comparative sense, for the fact is he was only about thirty-four years of 
age at this time.) 

On the evening of September 9th, the sick of our division bivouacked 
by the side of a small bayou, in a dense growth of forest trees. Next morn¬ 
ing the rumor spread among us that on that day a battle was impending, that 
our advance was close to the Confederates, and that a determined effort would 
be made for the capture of Little Rock. Sure enough, during the forenoon, 
the cannon began to boom a few miles west of us, and our infantry was 
seen rapidly moving in that direction. As I lay there helpless on the ground. 

I could not aVoid worrying somewhat about the outcome of the battle. If 
our forces should be defeated, we sick fellows would certainly be in a bad 
predicament. I could see, in my mind’s eye, our ambulance starting on a 
gallop for Devall’s Bluff, while every jolt of the conveyance would inflict on 
me excruciating pain. But this suspense did not last long. The artillery 
practice soon began moving further towards the west, and was only of short 
duration anyhow. And we saw no stragglers, which was an encouraging 
sign, and some time during the afternoon we learnt that all was going in 
our favor. From the standpoint of a common soldier, I have always thought 
that General Steele effected the capture of Little Rock with commendable 
skill, and, in a manner that displayed sound military judgment. The town 
was on the west side of the Arkansas river, and our army approached it from 
the east. Gen. Price, the Confederate commander, had constructed strong 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


91 


breastworks a short distance east of the town, and on the east side of the 
river, commanding the road on which we were approaching. The right of 
these works rested on the river, and the left on an impassable swamp. But 
Gen. Steele dii. not choose to further Price’s plans by butting his infantry up 
against the Confederate works. He entertained him at that point by ostenta¬ 
tious demonstrations, and attacked elsewhere. The Arkansas was very low, 
in many places not much more than a wide sandbar, and was easily fordable 
at numerous points. So Steele had his cavalry and some of his infantry ford 
the river to the west side, below the town, and advance along the west bank, 
which was not fortified. Gen. Price, seeing that his position was turned, 
and that his line of retreat was in danger of being cut off, withdrew his 
troops from the east side, and evacuated Little Rock about five o’clock in the 
afternoon, retreating southwest. Our troops followed close on his heels, and 
marched in and took possession of the capital city of the State of Arkansas. 
Our loss, in the entire campaign, was insignificant, being only a little over 
a hundred, in killed, wounded, and missing. The 61st was with the troops 
that operated on the east side of the river, and sustained no loss whatever. 
A few cannon balls, poorly aimed and flying high, passed over the regiment, 
but did no mischief,—beyond shaking the nerves of some recruits who never 
before had been under fire. 

About sundown on the evening of the 10th, the ambulance drivers hitch¬ 
ed up, and the sick were taken to a division hospital located near the east 
bank of the river. Capt. Keeley came over the next day to see Wallace 
and myself, and, at my urgent request, he arranged for me to be sent to the 
regiment. As heretofore stated, I just loathed the idea of being in a hospital. 
There were so many disagreeable and depressing things occurring there 
every day, and which could not be helped, that they inspired in me a sort of 
desperate determination to get right out of such a place,—and stay out, if pos¬ 
sible. Early next morning an ambulance drove up, I was put in it, and tak¬ 
en to the camp of the old regiment. Some of the boys carried me into a tent, 
and laid me down on a cot, and I was once more in the society of men who 
were not groaning with sickness, but were cheerful and happy. But it was 
my fate to lie on that cot for more than a month, and unable even to turn 
over without help. And i shall never forget the kindness of Frank Gates 
during that time. He would come every day, when not on duty, and bathe 
and rub my rheumatic part with a rag soaked in vinegar, almost scalding 
hot, which seemed to give me temporary relief. There was an old doctor, 
of the name of Thomas D. Washburn, an assistant surgeon of the 126th Il¬ 
linois Infantry, who, tor some reason, had been detailed to serve temporar¬ 
ily with our regiment, and he would sometimes drop in to see me. He was 
a tall old man, something over six feet high, and gaunt in proportion. I 
don’t remember that he ever gave me any medicine, or treatment of any 
kind, for the reason, doubtless, that will now be stated. One day I said to 
him, “Doctor, is there nothing that can be done for me? Must I just lie 
here and suffer indefinitely?” He looked down at me sort of sympathetically, 
and slowly said: “I will answer your question by telling you a little story. 
Once upon a time a young doctor asked an old one substantially tne same 
question you have just asked me, which the old doctor answered by saying. 
‘Yes, there is just one remedy:—six weeks’.” And, patting me lightly on the 
shoulder, he further remarked, “That’s all;” and left. The sequel in my case 
confirmed Dr. Washburn’s story. 

The spot where the regiment went into camp on the day of the cap¬ 
ture of Little Rock was opposite the towm, on the east bank of the Arkansas, 
not far from the river, and in a'scattered grove of trees. The locality was 
supposed to be a sort of suburb of the town, and was designated at the time 
in army orders as “Huntersville.” But the only house that I now remember 
of being near our camp was a little, old, ramshackle building that served as 
a railroad depot. Speaking of the railroad, it extended only from here to De- 
vali’s Bluff, a distance of about fifty miles, and was the only railroad at that 
time in the State of Arkansas. The original project of the road contemplat- 


92 THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 

ed a line from Tuttle Rock to a point on the Mississippi opposite Memphis. 
Work was begun on the western terminus, and the road was completed and 
in operation as far as Devall’s Bluff before the war, and then the war came 
along and the work stopped. Since then the road has been completed as 
originally planned. This little old sawed-off railroad was quite y a convenience 
to our army at the Rock, as -it obviated what otherwise would have been 
the necessity of hauling our supplies in wagons across the country from 
Devall’s Bluff. It also frequently came handy for transporting the troops, and 
several times saved our regiment, and, of course, others, from a hot and 
tiresome march. 

For some weeks while in camp at Huntersville, we lived high on several 
articles of food not included in the army rations. There were a good many 
sheep in the country round about that the military authorities confiscated, 
and so we had many a feast on fine, fresh mutton. Corn was plentiful also, 
and cornmeal was issued to us liberally. Last, but not least, the rich Arkan¬ 
sas river bottom lands abounded in great big yellow sweet potatoes that the 
country people called “yams,” and we just reveled in them to our entire sat¬ 
isfaction. 

There was a boy in my company named William Banfield, about the 
same age as myself. We had been near neighbors at home, and intimate 
friends. Bill was a splendid soldier, seldom sick, and always performed his 
soldier duties cheerfully and without grumbling. And Bill was blessed with 
a good digestion, and apparently was always hungry. The place where he 
would build his cook-fire in this camp was near the front of my tent, where I 
had a good view of his operations. I was lying helpless on my cot, and, like 
others so situated from time immemorial, had nothing to do, and scarcely 
did anything else, but watch the neighbors. Among the cherished posses¬ 
sions of our company was an old-fashioned cast-iron Dutch oven, of generous 
proportions, which was just the dandy for baking mutton. Well, Bill would, 
in the first place, get his chunk of mutton, a fine big piece of the saddle, or 
of a ham, and put it on to cook in the oven. Then we had another oven, a 
smaller affair of the skillet order, in which Bill would set to cooking a corn 
meal cake. At the right stage of the proceedings he would slice up some 
yams, and put them in with the mutton. Next, and last, he would make at 
least a quart of strong, black coffee. Both from long experience and critical 
observation Bill knew to the fraction of a minute how long it would take for 
all his converging columns of table comforts to reach the done point on time 
and all together, and the resulting harmony was perfection itself, and, (to 
use an overworked phrase), “left nothing to be desired.” Dinner now being 
ready, the first thing Bill did was to bring me an ample allowance of the en¬ 
tire bill of fare, and which, by the way, I had to dispose of as best I could 
lying down, as it was impossible for me to sit up. Having seen to the needs 
of a disabled comrade, Bill next proceeded to clear his own decks for action. 
He seated himself at the foot of a big tree, on the shady side, with his back 
against the trunk. Then spreading his legs apart, in the shape of a car¬ 
penter’s compass, he placed between them the oven containing the mutton 
and yams, at his left hand the skillet with the cornbread, and on his right 
his can of coffee—and then the services began. And how Bill would enjoy 
his dinner! There was no indecent haste about it, no bolting of the delica¬ 
cies, or anything of the sort. He proceeded slowly, and with dignity, while 
occasionally he would survey the landscape with a placid, contented air. But 
everything was devoured,—the last crumb of cornbread did dutv in sopping 
up the final drop of grease. The banquet over, Bill would sit there a while 
in silence, gazing, perchance, at the shimmering waters of the Arkansas, and 
its sandbars, glittering in the sun. But ere long his head would begin to 
droop, he would throw one leg over the Dutch oven, swinging the limb clear 
of that utensil, settle himself snugly against the tree, and in about five 
minutes would be asleep. 

At the time I am now writing, (October, 1916,) Bill is yet alive, and 
residing at Grafton, Illinois. He is a good old fellow, and “long may he 
wave.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


LITTLE ROCK, OCTOBER, 1863.—GRANTED A FURLOUGH.—CHAPLAIN 
B. B. HAMILTON.—THE JOURNEY ON FURLOUGH FROM LITTLE 
ROCK TO JERSEY COUNTY, ILLINOIS.—RETURN TO REGI¬ 
MENT, NOVEMBER, 1863. 


y^ABOUT THE MIDDLE OF OCTOBER the regiment shifted its camp ground 
““ from Huntersville to an open space on the west side of the river, 
near the State penitentiary, where we remained all the ensuing winter. Soon 
after this change of camp it was reported among us that one man from each 
company would soon be granted a thirty day furlough. Prior to this, while 
in Tennessee, there had been a very few furloughs granted in exceptional 
cases, which were all the indulgencies of that kind the regiment had so far re¬ 
ceived. I made no request to be the favored man of our company for this 
rumored furlough, but one day Capt. Keeley told me that he had decided that 
I should be the furloughed man from Co. D, and could make my arrange¬ 
ments accordingly. By this time I had so far recovered from my rheumatism 
that I could walk around with the aid of a cane, but was very “shaky” on 
foot, and any sudden shock or jar would make me flinch with pain. I won¬ 
dered how I should be able to get from the camp to the railroad depot on 
the other side of the river, with my knapsack, haversack and canteen, and 
their necessary contents, for I was utterly unable to carry them. I hap¬ 
pened to mention this problem to the chaplain of the regiment, B. B. Hamil¬ 
ton. He was an old and valued friend of my parents, and, as he had lived 
only a few miles from our home, I knew him quite well before the war, and 
had heard him preach many a time. He was of the Baptist denomination, 
and my parents were of the same religious faith. At this time he was still 
what I would now call a young man, being only about forty years old. My \ 
father’s given name was Jeremiah, and the Chaplain almost invariably, 
when speaking to me would, in a grave, deliberate manner, address me as 
“Son of Jeremiah.” When I mentioned to him my perplexity above indicat¬ 
ed, he responded: “Son of Jeremiah, let not your heart be troubled. The 
Lord will provide.”- Knowing that what he said could be depended upon, I 
asked no questions. The precious document giving me a thirty-days’ leave 
of absence was delivered to me in due time, and our little squad arranged to 
start on the next train, and which would leave Little Rock for Devall’s Bluff 
early the following day. I had my breakfast betimes the next morning, and 
was sitting on the ground in front of my tent, with my traps by me, when 
Chaplain Hamilton came riding up on his horse. He dismounted, and say¬ 
ing to me, “Son of Jeremiah, the Lord has provided;” thereupon helped me 
on his horse, and we started for the depot, the Chaplain walking by my 
side. We crossed the Arkansas on a sort.of improvised army bridge, and 
were approaching the depot, when a locomotive on the track near-by began 
to let off steam. The horse evidently was not accustomed to that, he gave 
a frantic snort, and began to prance and rear. For a second or so I was in 
an agony of apprehension. I was incumbered with my knapsack and other 
things, was weak and feeble, and no horseman anyhow, and knew that if 
I should be violently thrown to the ground, it would just about break me all 
to pieces, and my furlough would end then and there. But it is likely 
that the Chaplain may have apprehended the horse’s conduct, at any rate, 


93 


94 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


he was on the alert. With one bound he was in front of the frightened an¬ 
imal, holding him firmly by the bridle bits, and had him under control at 
once. And about the same time the engine stopped its noise, and the trou¬ 
ble was over. The cars destined for Devall’s Bluff were on the track, 
and the Chaplain, and some of our furlough party who had already arrived, 
helped me on the train. Of course there were no passenger coaches,—just 
box and gravel cars, and I seated myself on the floor of one of the latter. 
I gratefully thanked the Chaplain for his kindness, he said a few pleasant 
words, gave me a kind message for the folks at home, wished me a safe and 
pleasant trip, and then rode away. 

This is probaoly a fitting place to pay a brief tribute to the memory of 
Chaplain Hamilton, so I will proceed to do so. The first chaplain of the 
regiment was a minister named Edward Rutledge. He was appointed May 
16, 1862, and resigned September 3rd, of the same year. I do not remem¬ 
ber of his ever officiating often in the capacity of chaplain. I recall just one 
occasion when he preached to us, and that was under somewhat peculiar 
circumstances. He came to the regiment when we were in camp at Owl 
Creek, Tennessee, and, soon after his arrival, there was read one Saturday 
evening at dress parade an order in substance and effect as follows: That 
at a designated time on the following morning the men would assemble on 
their respective company parade grounds, wearing their “side-arms,” (which 
included waist- and shoulder-belts, cartridge-box, cap-pouch and bayonet,) 
and under the command of a commissioned officer each company would 
march to the grove where the chaplain would hold religious services. Well,. 
I didn’t like that order one bit, and the great majority of the boys felt the 
same way. The idea of having to attend church under compulsion seemed 
to me to infringe on our constitutional rights as free-born American citizens,, 
that while it might have been a thing to be endured in the days described in 
Fox’s “Book of Martyrs,” nevertheless, it wasn’t exactly fair right now. But 
orders must be obeyed, so we all turned out with the prescribed “side-arms,” 
and, like the young oysters that were inveigled by the Walrus and the Car¬ 
penter,— 

“Our clothes were brushed, our faces washed. 

Our shoes were clean and neat.” 

But it is much to be feared that the chaplain’s discourse didn’t do anybody 
a bit of good. For my part, I don’t now remember a word, not even the 
text. The order aforesaid gave so much dissatisfaction to the rank and file, 
—and perhaps to some of the line officers also, that it was never repeated, 
and thereafter attendance on the chaplain’s preaching was a matter left to 
each man’s pleasure and discretion. Judging only from what came under 
my personal notice, I don’t think that much good was ever accomplished by 
chaplains in the Western army, as regards matters of a purely theological 
nature. As some one has said somewhere: “Army service in time of war 
is d—d hard on religion.” But in practical, every day matters, chaplains had 
ample opportunities for doing, and did, a great deal of good. They held the 
rank, and wore the uniform of a captain,—and, while they had no military 
command over the men, they were, nevertheless, so far as I ever saw, al¬ 
ways treated by the soldiers with the most kind and respectful consideration. 
To fill the vacancy caused by the resignation of Rutledge, B. B. Hamilton 
was commissioned chaplain on October 30, 1862, and came to us about that 
date. He had been active in the ministry at home for many years, and dur¬ 
ing that time had preached in Jersey, Greene, and the adjoining counties, so 
he was personally known to many of the officers and men. He was a man 
of good, sound common sense, an excellent judge of human nature, and en¬ 
dowed with a dry, quaint sort of humor that was delightful. When talking 
with intimate friends he was prone, at times, to drop into an Oriental style 
of conversation, well garnished with sayings and illustrations from the 
Bible. I don’t rememoer now of his preaching to us very often, and when 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


95 


he did he was tactful in selecting a time when the conditions were all fav¬ 
orable. In his discourses ue ignored all questions of theology, such as faith, 
free-will, foreordination, the final perseverance of the saints, and such like, 
and got right down to matters involved in our every-day life. He would 
admonish us to be careful about our health, to avoid excesses of any kind 
that might be injurious to us in that respect, and above all things, to be 
faithful and brave soldiers, and conduct ourselves in such a manner that 
our army record would be an honor to us, and a source of pride and satis¬ 
faction to our parents and friends at home. In camp or on the march, he 
was a most useful and industrious man. He would visit the sick, write let¬ 
ters for them, and in general look after their needs in countless ways. He 
wrote a fine, neat, legible hand, and rendered much assistance to many of 
the line officers in making out the muster and pay rolls of their respective 
companies, and in attending to other matters connected with the company 
records, or official correspondence. And when the regiment had fighting to 
do, or a prospect of any, Chaplain Hamilton was always at the front. In 
the affair at Salem Cemetery, Hez. Giberson of Co. G was knocked down and 
rendered insensible for a short time by the near-by explosion of a shell. Ham¬ 
ilton ran to him, picked him up, and taking him by the arm, marched him to 
the rear, while shells were bursting all around us. I saw them as they walk¬ 
ed by,—Giberson wnite as a sheet, staggering, and evidently deathly 'sick, 
but the chaplain clung to him, kept him on his feet, and ultimately turned 
him over to the surgeon. 

The spring of 1865 found the regiment at Franklin, Tennessee. The war 
was then practically over in that region, and any organized armies of the 
Confederates were hundred of miles away. Hamilton’s health had become 
greatly impaired, and in view of all those conditions, he concluded to re¬ 
sign, and did so, on March 3rd, 1865, and thereupon returned to his old home 
in Illinois. The vacancy caused by his resignation was never filled, and 
thereafter we had no religious services in the regiment except on two or 
three occasions, rendered by volunteers, whose names I have forgotten. After 
leaving the army, Chaplain Hamilton led a life of activity and usefulness 
until incapacitated by his final illness. He died at Upper Alton, Illinois, on 
November 11th, 1894, at the age of nearly seventy-three years, respected 
and loved by all who knew him. He was a good, patriotic, brave man. I 
never saw him but once after he left the army, but we kept up a fraternal 
correspondence with eacn other as long as he lived. 

I will now return to the little squad of furloughed Sixty-onesters that 
was left a while ago on the freight cars at Little Rock. The train pulled out 
early in the day for Devali’s Bluff, where we arrived about noon. We at 
once made our way to the boat-landing,—and I simply am unable to describe 
our disappointment when we found no steamboats there. After making 
careful inquiry, we were unable to get any reliable information in regard to 
the time of the arrival of any from below,—it might be the next hour, or, 
maybe not for several days. There was nothing we could do but just biv¬ 
ouac there by the river bank, and wait. And there we waited for two long 
days of our precious thirty, and were getting fairly desperate, when one aft¬ 
ernoon the scream of a whistle was heard, and soon the leading boat of a 
small fleet poked its nose around the bend about half a mile below,—and we 
sprang to our feet, waved our caps, and yelled! We ascertained that the 
boats would start on the return trip to the mouth of White river as soon as 
they unloaded their army freight. This was accomplished by the next morn¬ 
ing, we boarded the first one ready to start, a small stern-wheeler, and. some 
time on the second day thereafter arrived at the mouth of White river. There 
we landed, on the right bank of the Mississippi, and later boarded a big 
side-wheeler destined for Cairo, which stopped to take us on. When it 
rounded in for that purpose, the members of our little sauad were quite 
nervous, and there was a rush on the principle of every fellow for himself. 
I was hobbling along with my traps, as best I could, when in going down the 
river bank, which was high and steep, in some way I stumbled and fell, 


96 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


and rolled clear to uie bottom, and just lay there, helpless. There was one 
of our party of the name of John Powell, of Co. G, a young fellow, about 
twenty-two or -three .years old. He was not tall, only about five feet and 
eight or nine inches, but was remarkably broad across the shoulders 
and chest, and had the reputation of being the strongest man in the regi¬ 
ment. He happened to see the accident that had befallen me, and ran to 
me, picked me up in his arms, with my stuff, the same as if I had been a 
baby, and “toted” me on the boat. He hunted up a cozy corner on the lee¬ 
ward side, set me down carefully, and then said, “Now, you d—d little cuss, 
I guess you won’t fall down here.” And all the balance of the trip, until 
our respective routes diverged, he looked after me the same as if I had been 
his brother. He was a splendid, big-hearted old fellow. While ascending 
the Mississippi, the weather was cloudy and foggy, the boat tied up at nights, 
and our progress generally was tantalizingly slow. We arrived at Cairo- 
on the afternoon of October 26th. It was a raw, chilly, autumn day, a driz¬ 
zling rain was falling, and everything looked uncomfortable and wretched. 
We went to the depot of the Illinois Central railroad, and on inquiry learned 
that our train would not leave until about nine o’clock that night, so apparent¬ 
ly there was nothing to do but sit down and wait. My thoughts were soon 
dwelling on the first ^me I saw Cairo,—that bright sunny afternoon in the 
latter part of March, 1862. I was then in superb health and buoyant spirits, 
and inspired by radiant hopes and glowing anticipations. Only a little over 
a year and a half had elapsed, and I was now at the old town again, but this 
time in broken health, and hobbling about on a stick! But it soon occurred 
to me that many of my comrades had met a still more unfortunate fate, and 
by this comparison method I presently got in a more cheerful frame of mind. 
And something happened to come to pass that materially aided that con¬ 
summation. Some of our party who had been scouting around the town re¬ 
turned with the intelligence that they had found a place called “The Sol¬ 
dier’s Home,” where all transient soldiers were furnished food and shelter 
“without money and without price.” This was most welcome news, for our 
rations were practically exhausted, and our money supply was so meager 
that economy was a necessity. It was nearing supper time, so we started at 
once for the Home, in hopes of getting a square meal. On reaching the 
place we found already formed a long “que” of hungry soldiers, in two ranks, 
extending from the door away out into the street. We took our stand at 
the end of the line, and waited patiently. The building was a long, low, frame 
structure, of a barrack-like style, and of very unpretentious appearance,—but, 
as we found out soon, the inside was better. In due time, the door was op¬ 
ened, and we all filed in. The room was well-lighted, and warm, and long 
rows of rough tables extended clear across, with benches for seats. And 
O, what a splendid supper we had! Strong, hot coffee, soft bread, cold 
boiled beef, molasses, stewed dried apples,—and even cucumber pickles! 
Supper over, we went back to the depot, all feeling better,, and I’ve had a 
warm spot in my heart for the old town of Cairo ever since. But it cer¬ 
tainly did look hard at this time. Its population, at the beginning of the 
war, was only a little over two thousand, the houses were small and di¬ 
lapidated, and everything was dirty, muddy, slushy, and disagreeable in 
general. In October, 1914, I happened to be in Cairo again, and spent sev¬ 
eral hours there, roaming around, and looking at the town. The lapse of 
half a century had wrought a wonderful change. Its population was now 
something over fifteen thousand, the streets were well paved and bril¬ 
liantly lighted, and long blocks of tall, substantial buildings had superseded' 
the unsightly shacks of the days of the Civil war. But on this occasion I 
found no vestige of our “Soldier’s Home,” nor was any person of whom in¬ 
quiry was made able to give me the slightest information as to where it 
had stood. The only thing I saw in the town, or that vicinity, that looked 
natural, was the Ohio river, and even its placid appearance was greatly 
marred by a stupendous railroad bridge, over which trains of cars were 
thundering every hour in the day. But the river itself was flowing on in 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


97 


serene majesty, as it had been from the time “the morning stars sang to¬ 
gether,” and as it will continue to flow until this planet goes out of business. 

We left Cairo on the cars on the night of October 26th, and for the 
first time in our military service, we rode in passenger coaches, which was 
another piece of evidence that once more we were in that part of the world 
that we uniformly spoke of as “God’s Country.” I remember an incident 
that occurred during our ride that night that gave us all the benefit of a 
hearty laugh. There was, (and is yet,) a station on the Illinois Central, in 
Jackson county, Illinois, of the name of “Makanda.” It was some time after 
midnight when we neared this station, the boys were sprawled out on their 
seats, and trying to doze. The engine gave the usual loud wnistle to announce 
a stop, the front door of our coach was thrown open, and a brakeman with 
a strong Hibernian accent called out in thunder tones what sounded exactly 
like “My-candy!” as here written,—and with the accent on the first syllable. 
There were several soldiers in the coach who were not of our party, also 
.going home on furlough, and one of these, a big fellow with a heavy black 
beard, reared up and yelled back at the brakeman,-—“Well, who the hell said 
it wasn’t your candy?” and the boys all roared. Many years later I passed 
through that town on the cars, and the brakeman Said “My-candy,” as of 
yore. I felt a devilish impulse to make the same response the soldier did 
on that October night in 1863, but the war was over, no comrades were 
on hand to back me,—so I prudently refrained. At Sandoval the most of 
our party transferred to the Ohio and Mississippi railroad, (as it was call¬ 
ed then,) and went to St. Louis, reaching there on the afternoon of Octo¬ 
ber 27th. Here all except myself left on the Chicago, Alton and St. Louis 
railroad, for different points thereon, and from which they would make their 
way to their respective homes. There was no railroad running through 
Jersey county at this time, (except a bit of the last named road about a 
mile in length across the southeast corner of the county,) and the railroad 
station nearest my home was twenty miles away, so I had to resort to some 
other mode of travel. I went down to the wharf and boarded a little Illi¬ 
nois river steamboat,—the Post-Boy, which would start north that nigh£, 
paid my fare to Grafton, at the mouth of the Illinois river, arranged wft 
the clerk to wake me at that place, and then turned in. But the clerk did 
not have to bother on my account, I was restless, slept but little, kept a close 
lookout, and when the whistle blew for Grafton, I was up and on deck in 
about a minute. The boat rounded in at the landing, and threw out a plank 
for my benefit,—the lone passenger for Grafton. Two big, burly deck-hands, 
rough looking, bearded men, took me by the arm, one on each side, and 
carefully and kindly helped me ashore. I have often thought of that little 
incident. In those days a river deck-hand was not a saint, by any means. 
As a rule, he was a coarse, turbulent, and very profane man, but these 
two fellows saw that I was a little, broken-down boy-soldier, painfully hob¬ 
bling along on a stick, and they took hold of me with their strong, brawny 
hands, and helped me off the boat with as much kindness and gentleness 
as if I had been the finest lady in the land. 

I was now only five miles from home, and proposed to make the balance 
of my journey on foot. I climbed up to the top of the river bank, and thence 
made my way to the main, and only street the little town then possessed, 
and took “the middle of the road.” It was perhaps four or five o’clock in 
the morning, a quiet, starlight night, and the people of the village were all 
apparently yet wrapped in slumber. No signs of life were visible, except 
occasionally a dog would run out in a front yard and bark at me. The main 
road from Grafton, at that time, and which passed near my home, wound 
along the river bottom a short distance, and then, for a mile or more, 
ascended some high hills or bluffs north of the town. The ascent of these 
bluffs was steep, and hence the walking was fatiguing, and several times 
before reaching the summit where the road stretched away over a long, 
high ridge, I had to sit down and rest. The quails were now calling all 
around me, and the chickens were crowing for day at the farm houses, and 


98 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


their notes sounded so much like home! After attaining the crest, the 
walking was easier, and I slowly plodded on, rejoicing in the sight of tiib 
many familiar objects that appeared on every hand. About a mile or so 
from home, I left the main highway, and followed a country road that led 
to our house, where I at last arrived about nine o’clock. I had not written 

to my parents to advise them of my coming, for it would not have been ju¬ 

dicious, in mere expectation of a furlough, to excite hopes that might be 
disappointed, and after it was issued and delivered to me, there was no use 
in writing, for I would reach home as soon as a letter. So my father and 
mother, and the rest of the family, were all taken completely by surprise 
when I quietly walked into the yard of the old home. I pass over any de¬ 
tailed account of our meeting. We, like others of that time and locality, 

were a simple, backwoods people, with nothing in the nature of gush or 
effervescence in our dispositions. I know that I was glad to see my parents, 
and the rest, and they all were unmistakably glad to see me, and we mani¬ 
fested our feelings in a natural, homely way, and without any display what¬ 
ever of extravagant emotions. Greetings being over, about the first inquiry 
was whether I had yet had any breakfast, and my answer oeing in the neg¬ 
ative, a splendid old-time breakfast was promptly prepared. But my mother 
was keenly disappointed at my utter lack of appetite. I just couldn’t eat 
hardly a bit, and invented some sort of an excuse, and said I’d do better in 
the future, but, somehow, right then, I wasn’t hungry, which was true. How¬ 
ever, this instance of involuntary abstinence was fully made up later. 

While on my furlough I went with my father in the farm wagon oc¬ 
casionally to Grafton, and Jerseyville, and even once to Alton, twenty miles 
away, but the greater part of the time was spent at the farm, and around 
the old home, and in the society of the family. I reckon I rambled over 
every acre of the farm, and besides, took long walks in the woods of the 
adjacent country, for miles around. The big, gushing Sansom Spring, about 
half a mile from home, was a spot associated with many happy recollec¬ 
tions. I would go there, lie flat on the ground, and take a copious drink of 
the pure, delicious water, then stroll through the woods down Sansom Branch 
to its confluence with Otter Creek, thence down the creek to the Twin Springs 
that burst out at the base of a ridge on our farm, just a few feet below a 
uig sugar maple, from here on to the ruins of the old grist mill my father 
operated in the latter ’40’s, and then still farther down the creek to the an¬ 
cient grist mill, (then still standing), of the old pioneer, Hiram White. Here 
I would cross to the south bank of the creek and»make my way home up 
through Limestone, or the Sugar Hollow. From my earliest youth I always 
loved to ramble in the woods, and somehow these around the old home now 
looked dearer, and more beautiful to me than they ever had before. 

The last time I ever saw my boyhood home was in August, 1894. It 
had passed into the hands of strangers, and didn’t look natural. And all 
the old-time natural conditions in that locality were greatly changed. The 
flow of water from Sansom Spring was much smaller than what it had 
been in the old days, and only a few rods below the spring it sunk into the 
ground, and disappeared. The big, shady pools along Sansom Branch 
where I had gone swimming when a boy, and from which I had caught 
many a string of perch and silversides, were now dry, rocky holes in the 
ground, and the branch in general was as dry as a bone. And Otter Creek, 
which at different places where it ran through our farm had once contain¬ 
ed long reaches of water six feet deep, and over, had now shrunk to a sickly 
rivulet that one could step across almost anywhere in that vicinity. And 
the grand primeval forest which up to about the close of the war, at least, 
had practically covered the country for many miles in the vicinity of my 
old home, had now all been cut down and destroyed, and the naked surface 
of the earth was baking in the rays of the sun. It is my opinion, and is 
stated for whatever it may be worth, that the wholesale destruction of the 
forests of that region had much to do with the drying up of the streams. 

But it is time to return to the boy on furlough. 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 99 


Shortly before leaving Little Rock for home, Capt. Keeley had confi¬ 
dentially informed me that if the military situation in Arkansas continued 
quiet, it would be all right for me before my furlough expired to procure 
what would effect a short extension thereof, and he explained to me the 
modus operandi. Including the unavoidable delays, over a tnird of my thirty 
days had been consumed in making the trip home, and the return journey 
would doubtless require about the same time. I therefore thought it would 
be justifiable to obtain an extension, if possible. My health was rapidly 
growing better, the rheumatism was nearly gone—but there was still room 
for improvement. I had closely read the newspapers in order to keep post¬ 
ed on the military status in the vicinity of Little Rock, and had learnt from 
them that the troops were building winter quarters, and that in general, 
“All was quiet along the Arkansas.” So, on November 9th, I went to Dr. 
J. H. I-Iesser, a respectable physician of Otterville, told him my business, 
and said that if his judgment would warrant it, I would be glad to obtain 
from him a certificate that would operate to extend my furlough for twenty 
days. He looked at me, asked a few questions, and then wrote and gave 
me a brief paper whicn set forth in substance that, in his opinion as a phy¬ 
sician, I would not be able for duty sooner than December 5tn, 1863, that 
being a date twenty days subsequent to the expiration of my furlough. I paid 
Dr. Hesser nothing for the certificate, for he did not ask it, but said that 
he gave it to me as a warranted act of kindness to a deserving soldier. (In 
September of the following year Dr. Hesser enlisted in Co. C, of our regi¬ 
ment as a recruit, and about all the time he was with us acted as hospital 
steward of the regiment, which position he filled ably and satisfactorily.) 
But I did not avail myself of all my aforesaid extension. I knew it would be 
better to report at company headquarters before its expiration than after, so 
my arrangements were made to start back on November 16th. Some hours 
before sunrise that morning, I bade good-by to mother and the children, 
and father and I pulled out in the farm wagon for our nearest railroad sta¬ 
tion, which was Alton, twenty miles away, where we arrived in ample time 
for my train. We drove into a back street and unhitched the team—the 
faithful old mules, Bill and Tom, tied them to the wagon and fed them, and 
then walked to the depot. The train came in due season, and stopped op¬ 
posite the depot platform, where father and I were standing. We faced each 
other, and I said, “Good-by, father;” he responded, “Good-by, Leander; take 
care of yourself.” We shook hands, then he instantly turned and walked 
away, and I boarded the train. That was all there was to it. And yet we 
both knew more in regard to the dangers and perils that environ the life of 
a soldier in time of war than we did on the occasion of the parting at Jer- 
seyville nearly two years ago,—hence we fully realized that this farewell 
might be the last. Nor did this manner spring from indifference, or lack of 
sensibility; it was simply the way of the plain unlettered backwoods people 
of those days. Nearly thirty-five years later the “whirligig of time” evolved 
an incident which clearly brought home to me a vivid idea of what must 
have been my father’s feelings on this occasion. The Spanish-American war 
began in the latter part of April, 1898, and on the 30th of that month, Hu¬ 
bert, my oldest son, then a lad not quite nineteen years old, enlisted in Co. 
A of the 22nd Kansas Infantry, a regiment raised for service in that war. 
On May 28th the regiment was sent to Washington, D .C., and was station¬ 
ed at Camp Alger, near the city. In the early part of August it appeared . 
that there was a strong probability that the regiment, with others at Wash¬ 
ington, would soon be sent to Cuba or Porto Rico. I knew that meant fight¬ 
ing, to say nothing of the camp diseases liable to prevail in that latitude 
at that season of the year. So my wife and I concluded to go to Washing¬ 
ton and have a little visit with Hubert before he left for the seat of war. 
We arrived at the capital on August 5th, and found the regiment then in 
camp near the little village of Clifton, Virginia, about twenty-six miles south¬ 
west of Washington. We had a brief, but very enjoyable visit with Hubert, 
who was given a pass, and stayed a few days with us in the city. But the 


100 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER, 


time soon came for us to separate, and on the day of our departure for home 
Hubert went with us to the depot of the Baltimore and Ohio railroad, where 
his mother and I bade him good-by. Then there came to me, so forcibly, 
the recollection of the parting with my father at the Alton depot in Novem¬ 
ber, 1863, and for the first time I think I fully appreciated what must have 
been his feelings on that occasion. 

But, (referring to the Washington incident,) it so happened that on the 
day my wife and I left that city for home, or quite soon thereafter, it was of¬ 
ficially announced that a suspension of hostilities had been agreed on between 
Spain and the United States. This ended that war, and consequently Hu¬ 
bert’s regiment was not sent to the Spanish islands. I will now resume my 
own story. 

My route from Alton, and method of conveyance, on returning to the 
regiment, were the same, with one or two slight variations, as those in going 
home, and the return trip was uneventful. But there were no delays, the 
boats ran day and night, and the journey was made in remarkably quick 
time. I arrived at Little Rock on the evening of November 20th, only five 
days over my furlough,—and with a twenty-day extension to show for that, 
reported promptly to Capt. Keeley, and delivered to him the certificate given 
me by Dr. Hesser. Keeley pronounced the paper satisfactory, and further 
said it would have been all right if I had taken the benefit of the entire 
twenty days. However, it somehow seemed to me that he really was pleas¬ 
ed to see that I had not done so, but had hurried back fifteen days ahead of 
time. After a brief conversation with him about the folks at home, and mat¬ 
ters and things there in general, he treated me to a most agreeable sur¬ 
prise. He stepped to the company office desk, and took therefrom a folded 
paper which he handed to me with the remark: “There, Stillwell, is some¬ 
thing I think will please you.” I unfolded, and glanced at it, and saw that 
it was a non-commissioned officer’s warrant, signed by Major Grass as com¬ 
manding officer of the regiment, and countersigned by Lieut. A. C. Haskins 
as adjutant, appointing me First Sergeant of Co. D. The warrant was dated 
November 4th, but recited that the appointment took effect from Septem¬ 
ber 1st, preceding. As before stated, Enoch Wallace was our original first 
sergeant, and as he was promoted to second lieutenant on September 3, 
1863, his advancement left his old position vacant, and his mantle had now 
fallen on me. I was deeply gratified with this appointment, and really was 
not expecting it, as there were two other duty sergeants who outranked me, 
and in appointing me I was promoted over their heads. However, they took it 
in good part, and remained my friends, as they always had been. And the 
plain truth is, too, wnich may have reconciled these sergeants somewhat, 
the position of first, or orderly sergeant as we usually called it, was not an 
enviable one, by any means. His duties were incessant, involving responsi¬ 
bility, and frequently were very trying. He had to be right with his com¬ 
pany every hour in the day, and it was not prudent for him*absent him¬ 
self from camp for even ten minutes without the consent of iiis company 
commander, and temporarily appointing a duty sergeant to act in his place 
while away. Among his multifarious duties may be mentioned the follow¬ 
ing: Calling the roll of the company morning and evening, and at such 
other hours as might be required; attending sick calls with the sick, and care¬ 
fully making a note of those excused from duty by the surgeon; making out 
and signing the company morning report, procuring the signature of the 
company commander thereto, and then delivering it to the adjutant; forming the 
company on its parade ground for dress parade, drills, marches, and the like; 
making the details of the men required from his company for the various 
kinds of guard and fatigue duty; drawing rations for the company, and dis¬ 
tributing them among the various messes; seeing to it that the company 
grounds (when in camp) were properly policed every morning;—and just 
scores of little matters of detail that were occurring all the time. It was 
a very embarrassing incident when sometimes a boy who was a good soldier 
was, without permission, absent at roll call. He might have strolled up 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


101 


town, or to a neighboring camp to see an old-time friend, and stayed too 
long. On such occurrences I would as a general rule, pass rapidly from his 
name to the next—and just report the boy present, and later talk to him 
privately and tell him not to let it happen again. It is true, sometimes an 
aggravated case occurred when, in order to maintain discipline, a different 
course had to be pursued, but not often. Speaking generally, I will say that 
it was bad policy for the orderly to be running to the captain about every 
little trouole or grievance. The thing for him to do was to take the re¬ 
sponsibility and act on his own judgment, and depend on the captain to back 
him (as he almost invariably would) if the affair came to a “show-down.” 
Beginning as far back as the summer of 1862, I had frequently temporarily 
acted as orderly sergeant, for weeks at a time, and so possessed a fair 
amount of experience when I entered on the duties of the position under a 
permanent appointment. But my long, solitary rambles out m the woods, 
beyond the lines, were at an end, and that was a matter of more regret 
than anything else connected with the office of orderly sergeant. While on 
this topic I will remark that it always seemed to me that the men who had 
the “softest snaps” of any' in a regiment of infantry were the lieutenants of 
the respective companies. The first lieutenant had no company cares or 
responsibilities whatever, unless the captain was absent, or sick in quar¬ 
ters, and the second lieutenant was likewise exempt, unless the captain and 
first lieutenant were Doth absent, or sick. Of course there were duties that 
devolved on the lieutenants from time to time, such as drilling the men, 
serving as officer of the guard, and other matters, but when those jobs were 
done, they could just “go and play,” without a particle of care or anxiety 
about the services of the morrow. 




CHAPTER XIV. 

LITTLE ROCK.—WINTER OF 1863-4.—RE-ENLIST FOR THREE YEARS 

MORE. 

W HEN I RETURNED to Little Rock from my absence on furlough, the reg¬ 
iment was found installed in cosy, comfortable quarters of pine log 
cabins. There were extensive pine forests near Little Rock, the boys were 
furnished teams and axes to facilitate the work, and cut and shaped the logs 
for the cabin walls, and roofed them with lumber, boards or shingles, which 
they procured in various ways. The walls were chinked and daubed with 
mud, and each cabin was provided with an ample,- old-fashioned fire-place, 

with a rock, or stick chimney. As wood was close at hand, and in abund¬ 

ance, there was no difficulty whatever in keeping the cabins warm. But I 
will remark here that of all the mean wood to burn, a green pine log is 
about the worst. It is fully as bad as green elm, or sycamore. But there 
was no lack of dry wood to mix with the green, and the green logs had this 
virtue: that after the fire had once taken hold of them they would last a 
whole night. The winter of 1863-’4 was remarkably cold, and to this day is 
remembered by the old soldiers as “the cold winter.” On the last day of 

1863 a heavy fall of snow occurred at Little Rock, and the first day of the new 

year, and several days thereafter, were bitterly cold. But the weather did 
not cause the troops in our immediate locality any special suffering, so far 
as I know, or ever heard. All of us not on picket were just as comfortable as 
heart could wish in our tight, well-warmed cabins, and those on guard duty 
were permitted to build rousing fires and so got along fairly well. Big fires 
on the picket line would not have been allowed if any enemy had been in 
our vicinity, but there were none, hence it was only common sense to let 
the pickets have fires and keep as comfortable as circumstances would per¬ 
mit. It was probably on account of the severe weather that active military 
operations in our locality were that winter practically suspended. There 
were a few cavalry ahairs at outlying posts, but none of any material im¬ 
portance. 

The most painful sight that I saw during the war was here at Little 
Rock this winter. It was the execution, by hanging, on January 8, 1864, of 
a Confederate spy, of the name of David O. Dodds. He was a mere boy, 
seemingly not more than nineteen or twenty years old. There was no ques¬ 
tion as to his guilt. When arrested there was found on his person a memo¬ 
randum book containing information, written in telegraphic characters, in 
regard to all troops, batteries, and other military matters at Little Rock. 
He was tried by a court martial, and sentenced to the mode of death al¬ 
ways inflicted on a spy, namely, by hanging. I suppose that the military 
authorities desired to render his death as impressive as possible, in order to 
deter others from engaging in a business so fraught with danger to our 
armies, therefore, on tne day fixed for carrying out the sentence of the court, 
all our troops in Little Rock turned out under arms and marched to the place 
of execution. It was in a large field near the town, a gallows had been 
erected in the center of this open space, and the troops formed around it in 
the form of an extensive hollow square, and stood at parade rest. The spy 
rode through the lines to the gallows in an open ambulance, sitting on his 
coffin. I happened to be not far from the point where he passed through, 
and saw him plainly. For one so young, he displayed remarkable coolness 

102 



THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


103 


and courage when in the immediate presence of death. The manner of his 
execution was wretchedly bungled, in some way, and the whole thing 
was to me indescribably repulsive. In the crisis of the affair there was a 
sudden clang of military arms and accouterments in the line not far from 
me, and looking in that direction I saw that a soldier in the front rank had 
fainted, and fallen headlong to the ground. I didn’t faint, but the spectacle, 
for the time being, well-nigh made me sick. It is true that from time im¬ 
memorial the punishment of a convicted spy has been death by hanging. 
The safety of whole armies, even the fate of a nation, may perhaps depend on 
the prompt and summary extinction of the life of a spy. As long as he is 
alive he may possibly escape, or, even if closely guarded, may succeed in 
imparting his dangerous intelligence to others who will transmit it in his 
stead, hence no mercy can be shown. But in spite of all that, this event 
impressed me as somehow being unspeakably cruel and cold-blooded. On 
one side were thousands of men with weapons in their hands, coolly looking 
on; on the other was one lone, unfortunate boy. My conscience has never 
troubled me for anything I may have done on the firing line, in time of bat¬ 
tle. There were the other fellows in plain sight, shooting, and doing the 
best they could do to kill us. It was my duty to shoot at them, aim low, and 
kill some of them, if possible, and I did the best I could, and have no re¬ 
morse whatever. But whenever my memory recalls the choking to death 
of that boy, (for that Is what was done), I feel bad, and don’t like to write, 
or think about it. But for fear of being misunderstood it will be repeated 
that the fate of a spy, when caught, is death. It is a military necessity. 
The other side hanged our spies, with relentless severity, and were justified 
in so doing by the laws and usages of war. Even the great and good Wash¬ 
ington approved of the hanging of the British spy, Maj. Andre, and refused 
to commute the manner of his execution to being shot, although Andre made 
a personal appeal to him to grant him that favor, in order that he might die 
the death of a soldier. The point with me is simply this: I don't want 

personally to have anything to do, in any capacity, with hanging a man, and 
don’t desire even to be in eye-sight of such a gruesome thing, and voluntarily 
never have. However, it fell to my lot to be an involuntary witness of two 
more military executions while in the service. I will speak of them now, 
and then be through with this disagreeaDle subject. On March 18th, 1864, 
two guerrillas were hanged in the yard of the penitentiary at Little Rock, 
by virtue of the sentence of a court martial, and my regiment acted as guard 
at the execution. We marched into the penitentiary inclosure, and formed 
around the scaffold in hollow square. As soon as this had been done, a 
door on the ground floor of the penitentiary was swung open, and the two 
condemned men marched out, pinioned side by side, and surrounded by a 
small guard. The culprits were apparently somewhere between forty and 
fifty years of age. They ascended the scaffold, were placed with their feet 
on the trap, the nooses were adjusted, the trap was sprung,—and it was all 
over. The crimes of which these men had oeen convicted were peculiarly 
atrocious. They were not members of any organized body of the Confeder¬ 
ate army, but guerrillas pure and simple. It was conclusively established 
on their trial that they, with some associates, had, in cold blood, murdered 
by hanging several men of that vicinity, private citizens of the State of Ar¬ 
kansas, for no other cause or reason than the fact that the victims .were 
Union men. In some cases the murdered men had been torn from their beds 
at night, and hanged in their own door-yards, in the presence of their well- 
nigh distracted wives and children. There can be no question that these two 
unprincipled assassins richly merited their fate, and hence it was imnossible 
to entertain for theta any feeling of sympathy. Nevertheless, I stand by mv 
original proposition, .aat to see any man strung up, like a dog, and hanged 
in cold blood, is a nauseating and debasing spectacle. 

In January, 1864, while we were at Little Rock, the “veteranizing” pro¬ 
ject, as it was called, was submitted to the men. That is to say, we were 
asked to enlist for “three years more, or endurin’ the war.” Sundry induce- 


104 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


ments for this were held out to the men, but the one which, at the time, had 
the most weight, was the promise of a thirty-days’ -furlough for each man 
who re-enlisted. The men in general responded favorably to the proposi¬ 
tion, and enough of the 61st re-enlisted to enable the regiment to retain 
its organization to the end of the war. On the evening of February 1st, with 
several others of Co. D, I walked down to the adjutant’s tent, and “went in” 
for three j^ars more. I think that no better account of this re-enlistment 
business can now be given by me than by here inserting a letter I wrote on 
December 22nd, 1894, as a slight tribute to the memory of our acting regi¬ 
mental commander in February, 1864, Maj. Daniel Grass. He was later pro¬ 
moted to lieutenant-coionel, and after the war, came to Kansas, where, for 
many years, he was a prominent lawyer and politician. On the evening of 
December 18th, 1894, while he was crossing a railroad track in the town where 
he lived, (Coffeyville, Kansas,) he was struck by a railroad engine, and 
sustained injuries from which he died on December 21st, at the age of a 
little over seventy years. A few days thereafter the members of the bar of 
the county had a memorial meeting in his honor, which I was invited to at¬ 
tend. I was then judge of the Kansas 7th Judicial District, and my judicial 
duties at the time were such that I could not go, and hence was compelled 
to content myself by writing a letter, which was later published in the local 
papers of the county, and which reads as follows: 

“Erie, Kansas. 

December 22, 1894. 

Hon. J. D. McCufe, 

Independence, Kansas. 

My Dear Judge:— 

I received this evening yours of the 20th informing me of the death of 
my old comrade and regimental commander during the war for the Union, 
Col. Dan Grass. I was deeply moved by this sad intelligence, and regret that 
I did not learn of his death in time to attend his funeral. I wish I could be 
present at the memorial meeting of the bar next Monday that you mention, 
but I have other engagements for that day that cannot be deferred. It af¬ 
fords me, however, a mournful pleasure to comply with your request sug¬ 
gesting that I write a few words in the nature of a tribute to our departed 
friend and comrade, to be read at this meeting of the bar. But I am fearful 
that I shall perform this duty very unsatisfactorily. There are so many 
kind and good things that I would like to say about him that throng my 
memory at this moment that I hardly know where to begin. 

I served in the same regiment with Col. Grass from January 7th, 1862, 
to December 15th, 1864. On the last named day he was taken prisoner by 
the rebels in an engagement near Murfreesboro, Tenn. He was subsequent¬ 
ly exchanged, but by that time the war was drawing to a close, and ne did 
not rejoin us again in the field. In May, 1865, he was mustered out of the 
service. During his term of service with us, (nearlv three years), I became 
very well acquainted with him, and learned to admire and love him as a man 
and a soldier. He was temperate in his habits, courteous and kind to th° 
common soldiers, and as brave a man in action as I ever saw. He was, 
moreover, imbued with the most fervid and intense patriotism. The war with 
him was one to preserve the Republic from destruction, and his creed was 
that the government should draft, if necessary, every available man in the 
North, and spend every dollar of the wealth of the country, sooner than suf¬ 
fer the rebellion to succeed, and the Nation to be destroyed. I think the 
most eloquent speech I ever heard in my life was one delivered by Col. 
Grass to his regiment at Little Rock, Arkansas, in February. 1864. The 
plan was then in progress to induce the veteran troops in the field to re-enlist 
for three years more. We boys called it ‘veteranizing.’ For various reasons 
it did not take well in our regiment. Nearly all of us had been at the front 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER, 


105 


without a glimpse of our homes and friends for over two years. We had 
undergone a fair share of severe fighting and toilsome marching, and the 
other hardships of a soldier’s life, and we believed we were entitled to a 
little rest when our present term should expire. Hence, re-enlisting pro¬ 
gressed slowly, and it looked as if, so far as the 61st Illinois was concerned, 
that the undertaking was going to be a failure. While matters were in this 
shape, one day Col. Grass caused the word to be circulated throughout the 
regiment that he would make us a speech that evening at dress parade on 
the subject of ‘veteranizing.’ At the appointed time we assembleld on the 
parade ground with fuller ranks than usual, everybody being anxious to hear 
what ‘Old Dan,’ as the boys called him, would say. After the customary 
movements of the parade had been performed, the Colonel commanded, “Pa¬ 
rade, Rest!’ and without further ceremony commenced his talk. Of course 
I cannot pretend, after this lapse of time, to recall all that he said. I remember 
b°st his manner and some principal statements, and the effect they produced 
on us. He began talking to us lute a father would talk to a lot of dissatis¬ 
fied sons. He told us that he knew we wanted to go home, that we were 
tired cf war, and its hardships; that we wanted to see our fathers and moth¬ 
ers, and ‘the girls we left behind;’ that he sympathized with us, and appre¬ 
ciated our feelings. ‘But, boys,’ said he, ‘this great Nation is your father, 
and has a greater claim on you than anybody else in the world. This great 
father of yours is fighting for his life, and the question for you to determine 
now is whether you are going to stay and help the old man out, or whether 
you are going to sneak home and sit down by the chimney corner in ease 
and comfort while your comrades by thousands and hundreds of thousands 
are marching, struggling, fighting, and dying on battle fields and in prison 
pens to put down this wicked rebellion, and save the old Union. Stand by 
the old flag, boys! Let us stay and see this thing out! We’re going to whip 
’em in the end just as sure as God Almighty is looking down on us right 
now, and then we’ll an go home together, happy and triumphant. And take 
my word for it, in after years it will be the proudest memory of your lives, 
to be able to say, “I stayed with the old regiment and the old flag until 
the last gun cracked and the war was over, and the Stars and Stripes were 
floating in triumph over every foot of the land!” 

l can see him in my mind’s eye, as plain as if it were yesterday. He 
stood firm and erect on his feet in the position of a soldier, and gestured 
very little, but his strong, sturdy frame fairly quivered with the intensity of 
his feelings, and we listened in the most profound silence. 

It was a raw, cold evening, and the sun, angry and red, was sinking be¬ 
lied the pine forests that skirted the ridges west of our camp, when the 
Colonel concluded his address. It did not, I think, exceed more than ten 
minutes. The parade was dismissed, and the companies marched back to 
their quarters. As I put my musket on its rack and unbuckled my cartridge 
box, I said to one of my comrades, “I believe the old Colonel is right. I am 
going right now down to the adjutant’s tent, and re-enlist;” and go I did, but 
not alone. Down to the adjutant’s tent that evening streamed the boys by 
the score and signed tne rolls, and the fruit of that timely and patriotic talk 
that Dan Grass made to us boys was that the great majority of the men re¬ 
enlisted, and the regiment retained its organization and remained in the field 
until the end of the war. 

But my letter is assuming rather lengthy proportions, and I must has¬ 
ten to a close. I have related just one incident in the life of Col. Grass that 
illustrates his spirit of patriotism and love of country. I could speak of many 
more, but the occasion demands brevity. Of his career since the close of 
the war, in civil life here in Kansas, there are others better qualified to 
speak than I am. I will only say that my personal relations with him 
since he came to this State, dating away back in the early seventies, have 
continued to be, during all these^ years, what they were in the trying and 
perilous days of the war—of the most friendly and fraternal character. To 
me, at least, he was always Col. Dan Grass, my regimental commander, 


106 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


while he, as I am happy to believe, always looked upon and remembered me 
simply as ‘Lee Stillwell, the little sergeant of Company D.’ 

I remain, 

Very sincerely, 

Your friend, 

L. STILLWELL.” 


\ 



CHAPTER XV. 


LITTLE ROCK.—EXPEDITIONS TO AUGUSTA AND SPRINGFIELD — 
MARCH, APRIL, AND MAY, 1864. 

TT N THE SPRING OF 1864 it was determined by the military authorities to 
“ undertake some oifensive operations in what was styled the “Red River 
country,” the objective point being Shrevesport, Louisana. Gen. N. P. Banks 
was to move with an army from New Orleans, and Gen. Steele, in command 
of the Department of Arkansas, was to co-operate with a force from Little 
Rock. And here my regiment sustained what I regarded, and still regard, as 
a piece of bad luck. It was not included in this moving column, but was as¬ 
signed to the duty of serving as provost guard of the city of Little Rock 
during the absence of the main army. To be left there in that capacity, while 
the bulk of the troops in that department would be marching and fighting was, 
from my standpoint, a most mortifying circumstance. But the duty that de¬ 
volved on us had to be done by somebody, and soldiers can only obey orders. 
Our officers said at the time that only efficient and well-disciplined troops 
were entrusted with the position of provost-guards of a city the size of Lit¬ 
tle Rock, and hence that our being so designated was a compliment to the reg¬ 
iment. That sounded plausible, and it may have been true, probably was, but 
I didn’t like the job a bit. It may, however, have all been for the best, as this 
Red River expedition, especially the part undertaken by Gen. Banks, was a 
disastrous failure. Gen. Steele left Little Rock about March 23rd, with a 
force, of all arms, of about 12,000 men, but got no further than Camden, Ar¬ 
kansas. Gen. Banks was defeated by the Confederates at tne battle of Sa¬ 
bine Cross-Roads, in Louisana, on April 8th, and was forced to retreat. The 
enemy then was at liberty to concentrate on General Steele, and so he like¬ 
wise was under the necessity of retreating, and scuttling back to Little Rock 
just as rapidly as possible. But on this retreat he and his men did some 
good, hard fighting, and stood off the Confederates effectively. About the first 
intimation we in Little Rock had that our fellows were coming back was 
when nearly every soldier in the city that was able to wield a mattock or a 
spade was detailed for fatigue duty and set to work throwing up breast¬ 
works, and kept at it, both day and night. I happened to see Gen. Steele 
when he rode into town on May 2nd, at the head of his troops, and he looked 
tough. He had on a battered, felt hat, with a drooping brim, an oil-cloth “slick¬ 
er,” much the worse for wear, the ends of his pantaloons were stuck in his 
boots, and he was just splashed and splattered with mud, from head to foot. 
But he sat firm and erect in his saddle, (he was a magnificent horseman,) and 
his eyes were flashing as if he had plenty of fight left in him yet. And the 
rank and file of our retreating army was just the hardest looking outfit of 
Federal soldiers that I saw during the war, at any time. The most of them 
looked as if they had been rolled in the mud, numbers of them were bare¬ 
foot, and I also saw several with the legs of their trousers all gone, high up, 
socking through the mud like big blue cranes. 

In view of the feverish haste with which Little Rock had been put in 
a state for defensive operations, and considering also all the reports in circu¬ 
lation, we fully expected that Price’s whole army would make an attack on 
us almost any day. But the Confederates had been so roughly handled in the 
battle of Jenkins’ Ferry, April 30th, on the Saline river, that none of their 
i' fantry came east of that river, nor any of their cavalry except a small 

107 


108 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


body, which soon retired, 'me whole Confederate army, aoout May 1st, fell 
back to Camden, and soon all was again quiet along the Arkansas. 

I will now go back about two weeks in order to give an account of a lit¬ 
tle expedition our regiment took part in when Gen. Steele’s army was at 
Camden. 

Late on the evening of April 19th, we fell in, marched to the railroad 
depot, climbed on the cars, and were taken that night to Devall’s Bluff. Next 
morning we embarked on the steamboat “James Raymond,” and started up 
White river. The other troops that took part in the movement were the 
3rd Minnesota Infantry and a detachment of the 8th Missouri Cavalry. We 
arrived at the town of Augusta, (about eighty miles by water from Devall’s 
Bluff,) on the morning of the 21st. It was a little, old, ramshackle, river 
town, largely in a deserted condition, situated on low, bottom land, on the 
east bank of White river. On arriving we at once debarked from the boat, 
and all our little force marched out a mile or so east of the town, where we 
halted, and formed in line of battle in the edge of the woods, with a large 
open field in our front, on the other side of which were tall, dense woods. 
As there were no signs or indications of any enemy in the town, and every¬ 
thing around was so quiet and sleepy, I couldn’t understand what these omin¬ 
ous preparations meant. Happening to notice the old chaplain a short dis¬ 
tance in the rear of our company, I slipped out of ranks, and walked back to 
him for the purpose of getting a pointer, if possible. He was by himself, and 
as I approached him, seemed to be looking rather serious. He probably 
saw inquiry in my eyes, and without waiting for question made a gesture 
with his hands towards the woods in our front, and said, “O Son of Jere¬ 
miah! Here is where we shall give battle to those who trouble Israel!” 
“What! What is that you say?” said I, in much astonishment. “It is even so;” 
he continued, “the Philistines are abroad in the land, having among them, 
as they assert, many valiant men who can sling stones at a hair’s breadth, and 
not miss. They await us, even now, in the forest beyond. But, Son of Jere¬ 
miah,” said he, “if the uncircumcised heathen should assail the Lord’s an¬ 
ointed, be strong, and quit yourself like a man!” “All right, Chaplain,” 1 
responded, “I have forty rounds in the box, and forty on the person, and will 
give them the best I have in the shop.—But say! Take care of my watch, 
will you? And, should anything happen, please send it to the folks at home;” 
—and handing him my little old silver time-piece, I resumed my place in the 
ranks. After what seemed to me a most tiresome wait, we finally advanced, 
preceded by a line or skirmishers. I kept my eyes fixed on the woods in 
our front, expecting every minute to see burst therefrom puffs of white 
smoke, followed by the whiz of bullets, and the crash of musketry, but noth¬ 
ing of the kind happened. Our skirmishers entered the forest, and disap¬ 
peared, and still everything remained quiet. The main line followed and 
after gaining the woods, we discovered plentv of evidence that they hao 
quite recently been occupied by a body of cavalry. The ground was cut up 
by horses’ tracks, and little piles of corn in the ear, only partly eaten, were 
scattered around. We advanced through the woods and swamps for sonm 
miles and scouted around considerably, but found no enemy, except, a few 
stragglers that were picked up by our cavalry. We left Augusta on the 24th, 
on our steamboat, and arrived at Little Rock on the same day. I met the 
chaplain on the boat while on our return, and remarked to him tha’t.—“Thos« 
mighty men who could kill a jaybird with a sling-shot a quarter of a mile 
off didn’t stay to see the show.” “No,” he answered, “when the sons of Bp- 
lial beheld our warlike preparation, their hearts melted, and became as wa¬ 
ter, they gat every man upon his ass, and speedily fled, even bevoml the 
brook which is called Cache.” He then went on to tell me that on our ar¬ 
rival at Augusta there was a body of Confederate cavalry near there, sup¬ 
posed to be about a thousand strong, under the command of a General McRae: 
that they were bivouacked in the woods in front of the line of battle we form¬ 
ed, and that on our approach they had scattered and fled. The enemv’s force 
really exceeded ours, but, as a general proposition, their cavalry was re- 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


109 


luctant to attack our infantry, in a broken country, unless they could ac¬ 
complish something in the nature of a . surprise, or otherwise have a decid¬ 
ed advantage at the start. 

On May 16th we shifted our camp to Huntersville, on the left bank of 
the Arkansas river, and near our first location. We thus abandoned our 
log cabins, and never occupied them again. They were now getting too 
close and warm for comfort, anyhow. But they had been mighty good friends 
to us in the bitterly cold winter of ’63-4, and during that time we spent many 
a cosy, happy day and night therein. 

On May 19th we again received marching orders, and the regiment left 
camp that night on the cars, and went to Hicks’ station, zS miles from Lit¬ 
tle Rock. We remained here, bivouacking in the woods, until the 22nd, 
when, at 3 o’clock in the morning of that day, we took up the line of march, 
moving in a northerly direction. The troops that composed our force con¬ 
sisted of the 61st, 54th, and 106th Illinois, and 12th Michigan (infantry regi¬ 
ments), a battery of artillery, and some detachments of cavalry; Brig. Gen. 
J. R. West in command. We arrived at the town of Austin, 18 miles from 
Hicks’ station, about 2 o’clock on the afternoon of the 22nd. It was a little 
country village, situated on a rocky, somewhat elevated ridge. As I under¬ 
stand, it is now a station on the Iron Mountain railroad, which has been built 
since the war. I reckon if in May, 1864, any one had predicted that some 
day a railroad would be built and in operation through that insignificant set¬ 
tlement among the rocks and trees, he would have been looked on as hardly 
a safe person to be allowed to run at large. 

Co. D started on the march with only one commissioned officer, second 
Lieutenant Wallace, i have forgotten the cause of the absence of Capt. 
Keeley and Lieut. Warren, but there was doubtless some good reason. On 
the first day’s march the weather was hot, and the route was through a very 
rough and broken country. Wallace was overcome by heat, and had to fall 
out, and wait for an ambulance. In consequence, it so happened that when 
we reached Austin, there was no commissioned officer with us, and I, as 
first sergeant, was in command of the company. And that gave rise to an 
incident which, at the time, swelled me up immensely. On arriving at the 
town, the regiment halted on some open ground in the outskirts, fell into 
line, dressed on the colors, and stood at ordered arms. Thereupon the ad¬ 
jutant. commanded. “Commanding officers of companies, to the front and 
center, march!” I was completely taken by surprise by this command, and 
for a second cr two stood, dazed and uncertain. But two or three of the boys 
spoke up at orce nd said, “You’re our commanding officer, Stillwell! Go!” 
The situation by this time had also dawned on me, so I promptly obeyed 
the command. But I must have been a strange looking “commanding of¬ 
ficer.” I was barefooted, breeches rolled up nearly to the knees, feet and 
ankles “scratched and tanned,” and my face covered with sweat and dirt. 
The closest scrutiny would have failed to detect in me a single feature of the 
supposed “pomp and circumstance” of an alleged military hero. But I stalk¬ 
ed down the line, bare feet and all, with my musket at a shoulder arms, and 
looking fully as proud, I imagine, as Henry oi Navarre ever did at the bat¬ 
tle of Ivry, with “a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.” By the pro¬ 
per and usual commands, the “commanding officers of companies” were 
brought up and halted within a few paces of Col. Ohr, who thereupon ad¬ 
dressed them as follows: 

“Gentlemen, have your men stack arms wl^ere they now are, and at 
once prepare their dinner. They can disperse to get wood and water, but 
caution them strictly not to wander far from the gun stacks. We may pos¬ 
sibly pass the night, here, but, we may be called on, at any moment, to fall 
in and resume the march. That’s all, gentlemen.” 

While the Colonel was giving these instructions, I thought a sort of un¬ 
usual twinkle sparkled in his eyes, as they rested on me. But, for my part, 
I was never more serious in my life. Returning to the company I gave the 
order to stack arms, which being done, the boys crowded around me, ply- 


110 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


ing me with questions. “What did the Colonel say? What’s up, Stillwell?” 
I assumed a prodigiously fierce and authoritative look and said: “Say, do you 
fellows suppose that we commanding officers of companies are going to give 
away to a lot of lousy privates a confidential communication from the Col¬ 
onel? If you are guilty of any more such impertinent conduct, I’ll have every 
mother’s son of you bucked and gagged.” The boys all laughed, and after 
a little more fun of that kind, I repeated to them literally etyery word the 
Colonel said, and then we ah set about getting dinner. About this time Lieut. 
Wallace rode up in an ambulance—and my reign was over. We resumed 
the march at 3 o’clock in the morning of the next day, (May 23rd), march¬ 
ed 18 miles, and bivouacked that night at Peach Orchard Gap. This was 
no town, simply a natural feature of the country. Left here next morning, 
(the 24th,) at daylight, marched 18 miles, and bivouacked on a stream call¬ 
ed Little Cadron. Left at daylight next morning (the 25th), marched 18 
miles, and went into camp near the town of Springfield. By this time the 
intelligence had filtered down to the common soldiers as to the object of this 
expedition. It was to intercept, and give battle to, a force of Confederate 
cavalry, under Gen. J. O. Shelby, operating somewhere in this region, and 
supposed to have threatening designs on the Little Rock and Devall’s Bluff 
railroad. But so far as encountering the Confederates was concerned, the 
movement was an entire failure. My experience during the war warrants 
the assertion, I think, that it is no use to send infantry after cavalry. It is 
very much like a man on foot trying to run down a jack-rabbit. It may be 
that infantry can sometimes head off cavalry, and thereby frustrate an in¬ 
tended movement, but men on horses can’t be maneuvered into fighting men 
on foot unless the horsemen are willing to engage. Otherwise they will just 
keep out of the way. 

We remained at Springfield until May 28th. It was a little place and 
its population when the war began was probably not more than a hundred 
and fifty, or two hundred. It was the county seat of Conway county, but 
there was no official business being transacted there now. About all the 
people had left, except a few old men, and sotne women and small children. 
The houses were nearly all log cabins. Even the county jail was a log struc¬ 
ture of a very simply and unimposing type. It has always been my opinion 
that this little “place was the most interesting and romantic looking spot, 
(with one possible exception I may speak of later), that I saw in the South, 
during all my army service. The town was situated on rather high ground, and 
in the heart of the primitive forest. Grand native trees were growing in the 
door-yards, and even in the middle of the main street,—and all around every¬ 
where. And we were there at a season of the year when Nature was at its 
best, and all the scenery was most attractive and charming. I sometimes 
would sit down at the foot of some big tree in the center of the little village, 
and ponder on what surely must have been the haopy. contented condition 
of its people before the war came along, and snoiled all. Judging from the 
looks of the houses, the occupants doubtless had been poor people and prac¬ 
tically all on the same financial footing, so there was no occasion for envy. 
A.nd there was no railroad, nor telegraph line, nor dailv papers, ,.o keep them 
nervous and excited or cause them to worry. And they were far away from 
the busy haunts of congregated men,— 

“Their best companions, innocence and health. 

And their best riches, ignorance of wealth.” 

Their trading point was Lewisburg, about fifteen miles southwest on the Ar¬ 
kansas river, and when that stream was at a proper stage, small steamboats 
would ply up and down, and bring to Lewisburg groceries and drv goods, and 
such other things as the country did not produce, which would then be wag¬ 
goned out to Springfield and into the country generally. And judging from 
all that could be seen or heard, I think there were hardlv any slaves at 
Springfield, or in the entire north part of Conway county, before the war. 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


Ill 


What few there may have been were limited to the plantations along the 
Arkansas river. I have never been at the little town since the occasion 
now mentioned, so personally I know nothing of its present appearance and 
condition. However, as a matter of general information, it may be said that 
after the war a railroad was built running up the Arkansas river valley, through 
the south part of the county. This road left Springfield out, so, in course of 
time it lost the county seat, which went to a railroad town. And this road 
also missed Lewisburg, which has now disappeared from the map entirely. 

When in camp at Springfield, many of the boys, in accordance with their 
usual habits, of their own motion at once went to scouting around over the 
adjacent country, after pigs, or chickens, or anything else that would serve 
to vary army fare. While so engaged two or three of our fellows discovered 
a little old whisky still. It was about, two miles from Springfield, situated 
in a deep, timbered hollow, near a big spring. It was fully equipped for ac¬ 
tive operation, with a supply of “mash” on hands, and all other essentials for 
turning out whisky. Some of the 10th Illinois Cavalry found it first, and 
scared away the proprietor, then took charge of the still and proceeded to 
carry on the business on their own account. The boys of the 61st who stumb¬ 
led on the place were too few to cope with the cayalrymen, thereupon tney 
hastened back to camp and informed some trusty comrades of the delectable 
discovery. Forthwith tney organized a strong party as an alleged “provost 
guard,” and all armed, and under the command of a daring, reckless duty 
sergeant, hastened to tne still. On arriving there, in their capacity as provost 
guards, they summarily arrested the cavalrymen, with loud threats of con¬ 
dign punishment, but after scaring them sufficiently, and on their solemn 
promise to at once return to camp and “be good” in the future, released 
them, and allowed them to depart. Then our bunch stacked arms, and 
started in to make whisky. Some of the number had served in the business 
before, and knew all aoout it, so that little still there in the hollow was then 
and there worked to its utmost capacity, day and night, and doubtless as it 
never had been before. Knowledge of this enterprise spread like wild-fire 
among the enlisted men,—and O, “how the whisky went down” at Spring- 
field! Away along some hours after midnight, I would hear some of the 
boys coming in from the still, letting out keen, piercing whoops that could 
be heard nearly a mile. Like the festive Tam O’Shanter, (with apologies to 
Burns): 

“The swats sae reamed in every noddle, 

They cared na rebs nor guards a boddle.” 

I took just one little taste of the stuff, from Sam Ralston’s canteen. It was 
limpid and colorless as water, and fairly burnt like fire as it went down my 
throat. That satisfied my curiosity, and after that many similar offers were 
declined, with thanks. Whether the officers at the time knew of this bus¬ 
iness or not, I do not know. If they did, they just “winked the other eye,” 
and said nothing, for the boys ran the still, without restriction or interrup¬ 
tion, until we left Springfield. 

Telling of the foregoing episode causes many other incidents to come 
flocking to my memory that came under my notice during my army 
career, in which whisky figured more or less. The insatiable, inordinate appe¬ 
tite of some of the men for intoxicating liquor, of any kind, was something 
remarkable, and the ingenious schemes they would devise to get it were wor¬ 
thy of admiration, had they been exerted in a better cause. And 
they were not a bit fastidious about the kind of liquor, it was 
the effect that was desired. One afternoon, a day or two after 
we arrived at Helena, Arkansas, a sudden yell, a sort of a “ki-yip!” was 
heard issuing from one of the company tents, soon followed by others of the 
same tone. I had heard that peculiar yelp before, and knew what it meant. 
Presently I sauntered down to the tent from whence the sounds issued, and 
walked in. Several of the boys were seated around, in an exalted state of vo¬ 
ciferous hilarity, and a flat, pint bottle, with the figure of a green leaf on one 


112 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


side, and labeled “Bay Rum” on the other, was promptly handed to me, with 
the invitation to “drink hearty.” I did taste it. It was oily, greasy, and un¬ 
pleasant, but there was no doubt that it was intoxicating, it, was nothing 
but bay rum, the same stuff that in those days barbers were wont to use in 
their line of business. It finally came to light that the sutler of some regi¬ 
ment at Helena had induced the post-quartermaster at Cairo to believe that 
the troops stood in urgent need of bay rum for the purpose of anointing their 
hair, and thereupon he obtained permission to include several boxes of the 
stuff in his sutler supplies. When he got it to Helena he proceeded to sell 
it at a dollar a bottle, ana his stock was exhausted in a few hours. What 
may have been done to this sutler I don’t know, but that was the last and 
only time that I know of bay rum being sold to the soldiers as a toilet arti¬ 
cle, or otherwise. Of course, all sutlers and civilians were prohibited, under 
severe penalties, from selling intoxicating liquor to the enlisted men, but the 
profits were so large that the temptation was great to occasionally trans¬ 
gress, in some fashion. But, as a general rule, I think that the orders were 
scrupulously obeyed. The risk was too great to do otherwise. 

I remember a little personal experience of my own, when once I tried to 
buy a drink of whisky. Jt is not a long story, so it will be told. It occur¬ 
red at Devall’s Bluff, in October, 1863, when our little furlough party was 
there, wai T ing the arrival of a boat from below, on which to resume our 
homeward journey. One night in particular was quite cold. We slept in 
our blankets on the ground near the bank of the river, built good fires, and 
tried to keep as comfortable as possible. But the morning after this cold 
night I got up feeling wretched, both mentally and physically. I was weak 
from previous illness, my rheumatic pains -faere worse, and my condition 
in general was such as caused me to fear that I was liable to break down 
and not be able to go home. It occurred to me that a drink of whisky might 
brace me up some, so I started out to obtain one, if possible. There was a 
sort of a wharf-boat at the landing, moored to the bank, a stationary, per¬ 
manent affair, with a saloon appurtenant. I went on the boat, walked up 
to the bar, and exhibiting a greenback to the bar-keeper, asked him if he 
would sell me a drink of whisky. “Can’t do it,” he answered, “the orders are 
strict against selling whisky to soldiers.” I began moving away, and at that 
instant a big, greasy, colored deck-hand, or laborer of some sort, black as 
the ace of spades, crowded by me, brushing against me in the narrow pas¬ 
sage on his way to the bar. “Boss,” he called to the keeper, “want a dram!” 
A bottle and a glass were pushed towards him, he filled the glass to the brim, 
and drank the contents at a gulp. Then he smacked his big lips, rolled his 
eyes around, and with a deep breath exclaimed, “A-h-h! Dat whisky feels 
des pow’ful good dis cole mawnin’!” I looked at the darkey in bitterness 
of heart, and couldn’t help thinking that it was all-fired mean, when a poor 
little sick soldier was not allowed to buy a drink of whisky, while a great 
big buck nigger roustabout had it handed out to him with cheerfulness and 
alacrity. But the orders forbidding the sale of intoxicating liquors to sol¬ 
diers were all right, and an imperative military necessity. If the men had 
been allowed unlimited access to whisky, and the like, that would, in my 
opinion, simply have been ruinous to the good order, discipline, and effici¬ 
ency of the army. That statement is based on events I saw myself while in 
the service, and which occurred when, in spite of the orders, the men 
managed to obtain liquor without let or hindrance. The scenes that would 
then ensue are too unpleasant to talk about, so they will be passed over in 
silence. It is only fair, however, to say that the same men who, when furi¬ 
ously drunk, were a disgrace to themselves and the organization to which 
they belonged, were, as a general rule, faithful and brave soldiers when sober. 

A 4 o’clock on the morning of the 28th we broke camp at- Springfield, 
and started back to Little Rock, marching in a southeasterly direction. We 
marched all that day, the 29th, 30th, and 31st, and arrived at our old camp 
at Huntersville at 9 o’clock in the evening of the last mentioned day. Ac¬ 
cording to the official report the .entire distance marched on the expedition 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


113 


going and coming, was 190 miles, and we didn’t see an armed Confederate on 
the whole trip. Our return route was through the wilderness, most of it 
primeval forest, and we didn’t pass through a single town. But now there 
is a railroad that runs practically over all the course we followed during the 
last three days we were on this march. I haven’t been in that region 
since we passed through there in May, 1864, but at that time it certainly 
was a very wild, rough, and broken country. We here had our first exper¬ 
ience with scorpions and tarantulas, and soon learnt that it was prudent, 
when bivouacking on the ground, to carefully turn over all loose rocks and 
logs in order to find and get rid of those ugly customers. The scorpions 
were about four or five inches long, the fore part of the body something like 
a crawfish, with a sharp stinger on the end of the tail. When excited or dis¬ 
turbed, they would curl their tails over their backs, and get over the ground 
quite rapidly. The tarantulas were just big hairy spiders, of a blackish-gray 
color, about as big as toads, and mighty ugly looking things. The sting of 
the tarantula, and the bite of the spider, were very painful, but when that 
happened to any of us, (which was seldom), our remedy was to apply a big, 
tvoc-h quid of tobacco to the wound, which would promptly neutralize the 
poison. 









/ 











CHAPTER XVf. 


DEVALL’S BLUFF; THE CLARENDON EXPEDITION.—JUNE AND JULY* 

1864. 

© N JUNE 20th we left Huntersville on the cars ana went to Hicks’ sta¬ 
tion, herein before mentioned, and there went into camp. In making 
this move, we left Little Rock for the last time, and from that day I have 
never seen the old town again. But our stay at Hicks’ station was brief. 
Marching orders came on June 24th, and on the next day we left on the cars 
and went to Devall’s Bluff, and on reaching there filed on board the steamer 
“Kentucky,” and started down White river, accompanied by several other 
boats also loaded with troops, all under the command of Gen. E. A. Carr. 
The object and purpose of this expedition was soon noised around among the 
men. The daring and enterprising Confederate General Shelby had on June 
24th turned up at Clarendon, on White river, not far below Devall’s Bluff, and 
here, with the aid of his artillery, had surprised and captured one of our 
so-called “tin-clad” gunboats, and had established a blockade of the river. 
As all our supplies came by way of that stream, it was necessary to drive 
Shelby away at once, hence our movement. We arrived at Clarendon on the 
morning of the 26th. Some of our gunboats were with us, in advance, and 
as soon as they came within range of the town began shelling it, and the 
woods beyond. The cannonade elicited no reply, and it was soon ascertain¬ 
ed that the enemy had fallen back from the riyer. The transports thereupon 
landed, the men marched on shore, formed in line of battle, and advanced. 
The Confederates were found in force about two miles northeast of town, and 
some lively skirmishing and artillery practice began. But our regiment was 
stationed in the supporting line, (darn it,) and didn’t get to pull a trigger. 
Cannon shot went over our heads now and then, but hurt nobody. While 
the racket was going on we were standing in line of battle, on the hither 
side of an extensive cotton field, and there was a big, rail cottonwood tree 
standing about a quarter of a mile in our front by the side of the road. I 
was looking in that direction when suddenly, as if by magic, a big forked 
branch of this tree quietly took leave of the trunk, as if it “didn’t know how 
it happened.” Before it struck the ground the shot from one of Shelby’s 
guns that had done this pruning went screaming over our heads. It sounded 
just real good, like old times, with an effect, somehow, like a powerful 
tonic. But the affair didn’t last long. Shelby had no stomach for fighting 
infantry, well supplied with artillery, and he soon fell back, and rapidly re¬ 
treated in a northerly direction, leaving two pieces of his artillery in our pos¬ 
session. When the Confederates retired, we followed promptly and vigor¬ 
ously, but of course the infantry couldn’t overhaul them, and neither could 
our cavalry bring them to a determined stand. Our route was largely 
through a low, swampy country, over a “corduroy” road. In many place's 
there were large gaps in the corduroy, where the logs had rotted and dis¬ 
appeared, and the road was covered with green and slimy water about knee- 
deep. On encountering the first of these breaks, we took off our shoes and 
socks, tied them to the ends of the barrels of our muskets, rolled up our 
trousers, and waded in. As such places were numerous, it was not worth 
while to resume our foot-gear, so we just trudged on bare-footed. But the 
weather was warm, and it made no difference, and the boys would splash 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


115 


through the mud and water in great good humor, laughing and joking as 
they went. We followed hard after Shelby until the evening of the 27th, 
and it being impossible to catch up with him, we started back to Clarendon 
on the morning of the 28th. In the matter of rations I reckon “some one had 
blundered,” when we started in pursuit of Shelby. We had left Clarendon 
with only a meager supply in our haversacks, and no provision train was 
with the command. So at the time we took the back track we were out of 
anything to eat. The country bordering on our route was wild, and thinly 
settled, and what people lived there were manifestly quite poor, hence there 
was very little in the shape of anything to eat that we could forage. On the 
first day of our return march our commissary-sergeant, Ronfoy, did manage 
to capture and kill a gaunt, lean old Arkansas steer, and it was divided up 
among the men with almost as much nicety and exactness as if it was a 
wedding cake with a prize diamond ring in it. And we hadn’t any salt to go 
with it, but in lieu of that used gunpowder, which was a sort of substi¬ 
tute. With that exception, (and a piece of hardtack to be presently men¬ 
tioned,) my bill of fare on the return march until we reached Clarendon 
consisted, in the main, of a green, knotty apple,—and some sassafras buds. 
About the middle of the afternoon on the second day the regiment made a 
temporary halt for some purpose, and we were sitting, or lying down, along 
the road side. There was a bunch of our cavalry on their horses, in column 
off the road a short distance, also at a halt, and I saw one of them munching 
a hardtack. I slipped out of ranks and approached the fellow, and when 
close to him said, “Partner, won’t you give me a hardtack?” He looked at 
me a second or two, without saying anything, and I was fearful that my ap- 
ipeal was going to be denied. But the look of ravenous hunger in my eyes 
probably gained the case, for at last he reached his hand into his haversack 
and handed me a tack, one of the big kind about four or five inches square. 

I was barely in time, for right then the cavalry moved on. I thrust the tack 
into my shirt bosom, gave a quick, furtive glance towards the company to 
see if anyone had observed me, and then started to get behind a big tree, 
where the precious morsel could be devoured without risk of detection. 
But John Barton had been watching, and was upon me before I could hide. 
“Hold on, Stillwell,” said he, “that don’t go! I divided with you as long as 
I had a crumb!” “That’s so, John;” I replied, heaving a mournful sigh, 
“here;” and breaking the hardtack in two, I gave him a fair half, and stand¬ 
ing behind the tree we promptly gobbled down our respective portions. 

We arrived at Clarendon on the evening of the 29th—having marched, 
in going and returning, about seventy miles. Here everybody got a square 
meal, which was heartily appreciated. As bearing hn the above mentioned 
incident about the hardtack, it will be said here, basing my remarks on my 
experience in the army, and elsewhere, that I think there is nothing that 
will reduce human beings so much to the level of the brute creation as in¬ 
tense, gnawing hunger. All the selfishness there is in a man will then come 
to the-surface, and to satisfy the well-nigh intolerable craving for something 
to eat, he will “go back” on his best friend. I could cite several instances in 
support of this statement that have come under my observation, but it is un¬ 
necessary. 

Soon after reaching Clarendon, as above stated, fires burst forth, ap¬ 
parently simultaneously, all over the town, and soon every building was in 
ashes. It was a sman place, and its population at the beginning of the war 
probably did not exceed three hundred. At this time the town had been 
abandoned by the residents, and so far as I know the houses were all va¬ 
cant. The buildings were small frame, or log, structures, composed of cyp¬ 
ress and pine lumber, or logs, roofed with shingles, and highly combustible, 
and they made an exceedingly hot fire. I do not know the cause of the 
burning of the town. The soldiers were tired, mad, and out of sorts gener¬ 
ally, and they may have fired it on their own motion, but it is more likely 
that it was done by order of the military authorities. The empty houses af¬ 
forded excellent cover whereby the Confederates could slip up to the river 


116 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


bank and annoy our gunboats, even to the extent of capturing one, as they 
had done quite recently. So as a military measure the burning of the town 
was fully justified. 

We left Clarendon on the evening of the 29th, on the steamer “Lillie 
Martin,” arrived at Devall’S Bluff some time during the night, debarked 
from the boat next morning, and went into camp near the river, where we 
enjoyed for a time an agreeable rest. 

Before taking final leave of the Clarendon expedition I will, in the in¬ 
terest of the truth of history, indulge in a little criticism of the gallant and 
distinguished officer who was the Confederate commander in this affair. All 
who are conversant with the military career of General J. O. Shelby will 
readily concede that he was a brave, skillful, and energetic cavalry com¬ 
mander. He kept us in hot water almost continually in the Trans-Mississip¬ 
pi department, and made us a world of trouble. But I feel constrained to 
remark that, in reporting his military operations, he was, sometimes, a most 
monumental -well, I’ll scratch out the “short and ugly” word I have writ¬ 

ten, and substitute “artist,” and let it go at that. I have just been reading 
his reports of this Clarendon episode, as they appear on pages 1050-1053, 
Serial Number 61, Official Records of the War of the Rebellion, and as he 
describes it, it is difficult to recognize it as being the same affair we took 
part in, in June, 1864. In the first place, he says that the loss of the Feder¬ 
ate can “safely be put down at 250 killed and wounded,” and that 30 will cov¬ 
er his own. On the other hand, our commander, Gen. Carr, says the Con¬ 
federate loss, killed, wounded and captured, was “about” 74, and gives ours 
as 1 killed, and 16 wounded, (lb. p. 1047). And from what I personally saw, 
I have no doubt that Gen. Carr’s statements are correct. Shelby further as¬ 
serts that “three times” he drove us “back to the river,” and, that later, 
while on his retreat, he “charged” us, and “drove them (us) back three 
miles in confusion.” Now, those statements ate pure moonshine. I was 
there, and while, as previously stated, not on the firing line, was neverthe¬ 
less in a position either to see or hear every thing of any material conse¬ 
quence that transpired. The force on each side was comparatively small, 
the field of active operations was limited, and it was not difficult for even 
a common soldier to have an intelligent idea of what was going on. And, 
for my part, with the natural curiosity of a boy, I was constantly on the alert 
to see or hear everything that was being done in the shape of fighting. In 
the operations near the town, we were not driven “back to the river,” nor 
towards it, on any occasion. On his retreat, Shelby did make one or two 
feeble stands, the object being merely to delay us until his main body could 
get well out of the way, and when that was accomplished, his rear guard 
galloped after them as fast as they could. That it was mainly a race with 
him to get away is evident from a statement in his report, in which he says 
he was then (June 30th,) “resting” his “tired and terribly jaded horses.” But, 
in telling of his exploits, he says nothing about losing two pieces of his ar¬ 
tillery. The saying of Bonaparte’s,—“False as a war. bulletin,” has passed 
into a proverb, and this bulletin of Gen. Shelby’s is no exception. 



CHAPTER XVII. 


DEVALL’S BLUFF.—GRAND REVIEWS AND INSPECTIONS.—SURGEON 
J. P. ANTHONY.—PRIVATE PRESS ALLENDER.— 

JUNE AND JULY, 1864. 

H HAVE SAID nothing so far about “grand reviews,” or other functions of 

that sort, and here is as good a place as any to notice them. From 

some cause or other we had what seemed to us an undue proportion of grand 
reviews in Arkansas in the summer of 1864. They were not a bit popular 
with the common soldiers. It became a saying among us, when a grand re¬ 
view was ordered, that the reviewing officer had got a new uniform, and 

wanted to show it—but, of course, that was only soldier talk. 

On June 10th, while in camp a Huntersville, all the troops at Little 
Rock were reviewed by Maj. Gen. Daniel E. Sickles, late of the Army of the 
Potomac. He lost a leg at the battle of Gettysburg, which incapacitated him 
for active service, so President Lincoln gave him a sort of roving commis¬ 
sion to visit and inspect all the western troops. In conducting the review at 
Little Rock, on account of his maimed condition he rode along the line in an 
open carriage. The day was exceedingly hot, the troops on our side of the 
river were reviewed on low grounds where the air was stifling, we wore 

our jackets tightly buttoned, and we all suffered fearfully from heat. One 

man in the line near me went over with a crash, all in a pile, from sun¬ 
stroke, and I heard that there were several other such cases. Nine days 

later, (June 19th,) we had division grand review conducted by our division 
commander, Gen. C. (J. Andrews, and on July 11th another grand review by 
the same officer. And interspersed with the reviews were several brigade 
inspections of arms. But as those did not involve any marching, they were 
not as fatiguing as the reviews. I will mention specifically but one of these 
inspections, and do so for the reason that there were some things connect¬ 
ed with it I have always remembered with interest and pleasure. It was 
held on July 4th, at DevalTs Bluff, the inspecting officer being Col. Randolph 
B. Marcy, Inspector-General U .S. Army. He was a regular army officer, a 
graduate of West Point, and at this time was about fifty-two years of age. 
He was over six feet tall, straight as an arrow, and a splendid looking man 
in general. We had very short notice of this inspection, and having re¬ 
turned only a few days before from the Clarendon expedition had not yet 
had time, or opportunity, to wash our shirts, and, were in' quite a rough 
and tough condition. And the fact that this inspection was to be conduct¬ 
ed by the Inspector-General of the United States Army, an old regular, and 
a West Point graduate, made us nervous, and we apprehended all sorts of 
trouble. So far as I ever knew, the volunteers had not much love for the 
regular army officers. We regarded them as unreasonably strict and tech¬ 
nical, and were of the impression that they were inclined to “look down” 
on volunteers. Whetner this feeling was well founded, or not, I cannot say, 
but there is no question that it existed. On this occasion we went to work 
with a will, and soon had our muskets, bayonets, belt-plates, and accouter¬ 
ments in general, bright and shining, and in the very pink of condition. It 
was to be an inspection of arms only, and did not include knapsacks. About 
9 o’clock on the morning of July 4th, we fell in on the regimental parade 
ground, broke into columns of companies, right in front, in open order, and 
the greatly feared Inspector-General entered on his duty. As already 
stated, we looked hard. Many of us were barefoot, and our clothes in gener- 

117 


/ 


118 THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 

al were dirty and ragged. But Col. Marcy knew we had just come off a 
march, he was a very sensible man, and capable of making some allow¬ 
ances. In accordance with the regulations, he passed in front of us, 
walking slowly and looking at us critically. As he came opposite each sol¬ 
dier, the latter brought his piece into the prescribed position for examina¬ 
tion, but Col. Marcy contented himself with a sweeping glance, and did not 
take the musket in his hands. Then he passed to the rear of the ranks, and 
walked slowly along behind us, while we stood immovable, with eyes fixed 
to the front. It was soon all over. He then approached Col. Ohr, said 
something I did not hear, but which w^,s evidently pleasant, for the Colonel 
smiled, then turned round facing us, and with a sweep of his arm in our 
direction said,—loud enough for many of us to hear, “Good soldiers!” where¬ 
upon we all felt much relieved, and proud!-—and the dreaded inspection was 
a thing of the past. Several years afterwards, when in civil life out in 
Kansas, I learnt that Col. Marcy was not only a grand old soldier, but also 
a most interesting writer. I have two of his books in my li Drary now, and 
have had for many years, one being his official report of the “Exploration 
of the Red River of Louisiana, in the year 1852;” the other, “Thirty Years 
of Army Life on the Border.” Both are highly interesting, and,I frequently 
take them from the shelf, and look them over. And when I do so there al¬ 
ways rises up on about every page, the recollection of the tall, imposing 
figure of Col. Marcy, as he stood beneath the oaks at Devall’s Bluff, Arkan¬ 
sas, on the morning of July 4th, 1864, and .waved his arm towards us, and 
said in a kind tone, and with approving look: “Good soldiers!” 

There was in Company D an original sort of a character, of the name of 
Ambrose Pressley Allender,—for short generally called “Press.” He was 
at this time, (1864,) about thirty-five years old. He had been a private in a 
regiment of Kentucky infantry during the Mexican war, but what the length 
of his service may have been I do not know. But in his Mexican war exper¬ 
ience he had at least learnt every possible trick and device that could be 
resorted to in “playing off,” as the boys called it; that is, avoiding duty on 
the plea of sickness, or any other excuse that would serve: He was not a 
bad man, by any means, but a good-hearted old fellow. He had re-enlisted, 
along with the rest of us, when the regiment veteranized. But his propen¬ 
sity for shirking duty, especially anything severe or unpleasant, seemed in¬ 
veterate and incurable. He made me lots of trouble, for some time, after I 
became first sergeant. I was only a boy, and he was a man of mature age, 
about fifteen years my senior, and looking back to those days, I can see 
now where many times he pulled the wool over my eyes completely and in¬ 
duced me to grant him favors in the matter of details that he was not en¬ 
titled to. But it was not long before I began to understand Press, and then, 
if he was excused from duty, or passed over for a lighter job, the authority 
had to come from the regimental surgeon. Dr. Julius P. Anthony, of Brown 
county, Illinois, was appointed surgeon of the regiment in September, 1863, 
and remained with us in that capacity until we were mustered out of the 
service. He was not a handsome man, by any means. He was hawk-nosed, 
with steel-blue eyes, and had a most peculiar sort of a high-keyed, nasal-toned 
voice. But he was an excellent physician, and a shrewd, accurate judge of 
men. So, when Press bucked up against Dr. Anthony, he found a foeman 
worthy of his steel, and the keen-eyed old doctor was a different proposition 
from a boy orderly sergeant. Press would keep close watch of the details 
as they progressed down the company roll, and when he was next in turn, 
and the impending duty was one he did not fancy, would then retire to. his 
tent, or shack, and when wanted for picket, or some laborious fatigue duty, 
would be found curled up in his bunk and groaning dismally. When we 
were at Devall’s Bluff, at a time about the last of July, 1864, I discovered 
him in this condition one morning before sick call, when I went to apprise 
him (out of abundant caution), that he was next for duty, and not to wander 
from the camp. He forthwith told me he was very sick! hadn’t slept a wink 
all night and that I must pass over him for the time being. I replied that 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


119 


if he was sick, he must fall in at sick-call, and have the surgeon pass on his 
case, &o he climbed out of his bunk, put on his trousers, and made ready. 
Sick-call was sounded pretty soon, and I went with Press and two or three 
of the other boys to the surgeon’s tent. Press kept in the back ground until 
the other cases were disposed of, and then stepped forward. His breeches 
were unbuttoned down to nearly the last button, he was holding them up 
with his hands, and his stomach protruded like the belly of a brood-sow. 
‘Well, Allender,” inquired Dr. Anthony, “i’gad, what’s the matter with 
you?” Press was careful to put on all the military frills at such a time, 
and he began thus: “Major Anthony, First-sergeant Stillwell has several 
times putten me on duty when I was not fitten for duty, and so I am now 
compelled to come to you, and—” “That’ll do, Allender,” interrupted the 
doctor, “what are your symptoms?” Press then began the story of his 
woes. He had racking pains in the stomach, head-ache, couldn’t sleep, “all 
bloated up,” he said, ‘as you can see for yourself;” with a comprehensive 
gesture towards his abdominal regions,—and numerous other troubles, in¬ 
cluding “night sweats.” Dr. Anthony heard him patiently, and without in¬ 
terruption, but scanned him closely all the time he was talking. Press at 
last stopped to take breath, and then the doctor, in his rasping voice, 
spoke as follows: “Allender, the trouble with you is simply exercising too 
little, and eating too much. And if you don’t quit stuffing yourself, and get 
around more, I shall instruct Sergeant Stillwell to put you on fatigue duty 
every day until you are rid of that mass of fermenting fecal matter in your 
bowels, and your stomach is restored to a normal condition. That’s all.” 
Then addressing me, he said: “Allender’s able for duty;” and Press and I 
walked out. As soon as we were beyond the hearing of Dr. Anthony, Press 
turned loose. He was a terribly profane fellow when he tried, and had ac¬ 
cumulated a stock of the most unique and outrageous expressions that could 
be invented, and all tnese he now fired at the Doctor. Having no desire to 
put salt on a green wound, I said nothing. In perhaps an hour or so the 
first sergeant’s call was sounded at the adjutant’s tent, which meant a de¬ 
tail. I responded to the call, and the Sergeant-Major, consulting the regi¬ 
mental detail slip he held in his hand, told me he wanted a corporal and 
five privates from my company, with two days rations, to help make up a 
scouting party going up White river on a steamboat, and for them to report 
in fifteen minutes. That caught old Press, and I went to his shack expect¬ 
ing a scene. He was found lying on his bunk, in his drawers and shirt—as 
usual in such emergencies. I proceeded to detail him as one of the scout¬ 
ing party, and told him to be all ready within fifteen minutes. In the mean¬ 
time, the weather nad changed, and a disagreeable, drizzling rain was fall¬ 
ing. Press heaved a deep sigh when informed of his detail, and began to 
beg, and protest. I told him that the doctor had refused to excuse him, that 
he was the next man on the roll for duty, that I had no discretion in the 
matter, and he would have to get ready and go. But, if he was feeling worse, 
I would go with him again to the doctor, and request him to look further 
into his case. Press sprang out of his bunk with a bound, and grabbed his 
trousers. “Before I’ll ever go again,” he said, “to that hawk-nosed old 
blankety-blank-blank, to get excused from duty, I’ll see him in hell further 
than a pigeon can fly in a leap year. He hasn’t got sense enough any¬ 
how, to doctor an old dominecker hen that is sick with a sore [anus], much 
less a civilized human being. You could let me off this detail, if you wanted 
to, and let me tell you, Stillwell, if this trip kills me, which it probably will, 
I want you to remember, as long as you live, that the responsibility for my 
death lies on your head!'’ This last statement, I will confess, rather upset 
me, and had it been delivered in a weak and pitiful tone, there is no telling 
what I might have done. But he didn’t “roar” me “as gently as a sucking 
dove,” by a long shot, for his voice was full and loud, and quivering with 
energy and power. So I made no response to this dire prediction; Press £ot 
ready! and went. The weather cleared up in a few hours, and was bright 
and pleasant, but nevertheless I became very uneasy about Press. If the old 


120 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


fellow really was sick, ana, if, by any possibility, this detail should result in 
his death, why, then, i felt that his last words would haunt me as long as 
I lived. I waited anxiously for the return of the scouting party, and when 
the whistle of the boat was heard on its arrival at the Bluff, went at once 
to the landing to learn the fate of Press, and stood on the bank where the 
men could be seen as they came ashore. Presently here came Press, very 
much alive, and looking fine! He bore, transfixed on his bayonet, a home- 
cured ham of an Arkansas hog; the tail feathers of a chicken were ostenta¬ 
tiously protruding from the mouth of his haversack, and which receptacle 
was also stuffed well-nigh to bursting with big, toothsome yams. And later 
the fact was developed that his canteen was full of sorghum molasses. As 
he trudged up the road cut through the bank, his step was springy and firm, 
his face was glowing with health, and beaded with perspiration. I felt great¬ 
ly relieved, and happy, and inspired by the joy of the moment, called to 
him: “Hello, Press! You seem to be all right!” He glanced up at me, and 
in a sort of a sheepish manner responded, “Yes. As luck would have it, the 
trip ’greed with me.” And from this time on, I had no more trouble with 
old Press. He turned over a new leaf, cut out completely his old-time ma¬ 
lingering practices, and thenceforward was a good, faithful soldier. We 
were in some close places afterwards, and he never flinched, but stood up 
to the work like a man. He was mustered out with the rest of us in Sep¬ 
tember, 1865, and after some going and coming, settled down in Peoria coun¬ 
ty, Illinois, where he died March 15, 1914, at the age of nearly eighty-five 
years. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


THE REGIMENT GOES HOME ON VETERAN FURLOUGH.—INTERVIEW 
WITH GEN. W. T. SHERMAN AFTER THE WAR.—A SHORT TOUR 
OF SOLDIERING AT CHESTER, ILLINOIS.—AUGUST, SEP¬ 
TEMBER, OCTOBER, 1864. 

A FTER OUR RETURN from the Clarendon affair, we remained in camp 
at Devall’s Bluff, where nothing more important occurred than drill¬ 
ing, reviews, inspections, and the like. The summer was rapidly passing 
away, and still the regiment had not received the 30-day furlough promised 
us when we veteranized. Nearly, all the other regiments in the departnmt 
that had re-enlisted had received theirs, and it looked as if the poor old 61st 
Illinois had been “lost in the shuffle.” The boys began 10 get a little impa¬ 
tient about this, and somewhat disposed to grumble, which was only natural. 
But on August 8th the paymaster made us a visit, paid us six months’ pay, 
and our veteran bounty, and then the prospect for the furlough began to 
brighten, and we were assured by our officers that- we had not much longer 
to wait. And sure enough, on August 14th, we started home. We left the 
recruits and non-veterans at Devall’s Bluff, to which we expected to return 
on the expiration of our furlough, but the fates willed otherwise, as will be 
seen later. When we filed on board the steamboat that August morning, 
the old regiment, as an organization, was leaving Arkansas forever. 

I will say here that I have always regretted, and shall regret as long 
as I live, that after the capture of Vicksburg, the regiment happened to get 
switched off into Arkansas. We thereby were taken away from the big 
armies, and out of the main currents of the war, where great deeds were 
being done, and history made. Of course we couldn’t help it; we had no 
choice; and, as I have remarked before, the common soldier can only do what 
those in authority direct. As connected with this subject I will here tell the 
story of a little conversation 1 had with Gen. W. T. Sherman, at his office in 
Washington in February, 1883. I had gone to that city on a business matter, 
and while there met Ooi. P. B. Plumb, then one of the senators from Kansas. 
In the course of our conversation he asked if there were any of the “big bugs” 
in Washington I wanted to see,—if so, he would be glad to take me around and 
introduce me. I replied that there were only two; that just as a matter of 
curiosity I would like to see President Arthur, but I really was very de¬ 
sirous of having a little visit with Gen. Sherman. Plumb laughed, said that 
my desires were modest, and made a date with me when he would take me 
to see the President and Gen. Sherman. At the time appointed we went, 
first to the White House, where we met the President. I shook hands with 
him, and after a few commonplace remarks, retired to the background. The 
President and Plumb talked a minute or two about some public matter, and 
then we left. “Now,” said Plumb, “we’ll go see ‘Uncle Billy’.” Sherman 
was then the General of the army, and had his office, as I now remember, in 
the War Department building, near the White House. On entering his of¬ 
fice, we found him seated at a desk, writing. I had seen him personally 
several times, but had no acquaintance with him whatever. Plumb intro¬ 
duced me to him, saying, as he gave my name, that I was one of his 
“boys.” The General dropped his pen, shook hands with me heartily, and at 
once began talking, i think he was the most interesting talker I ever have 
known. He had lived a life of incessant activity, had done great things, and 

121 


122 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


had mingled with great men, hence, he was never at a loss for an engaging' 
topic. After while the monologue lulled, and gave me the opportunity 
for which I had been patiently waiting. “General,” I began, “there is an in¬ 
cident connected with your military career during the Civil War that I 
have wanted for some time to speak to you about, and, if agreeable, will do 
so now.” “Huh,” said he, “what is it?” It was interesting, and a little amus¬ 
ing to me at the time, to see the instantaneous change that came over him. 
His face darkened, his eyes contracted, and a scowl appeared on his brow. 
His appearance and manner said, almost as plain as words: “Now here’s a 
smart young Aleck, who never had a greater command than a picket post of 
three men, who is going to tell me how he thinks I should have fought a bat¬ 
tle.” Resuming, I said, “Some years ago I read Gen. Badeau’s ‘Life of 
Grant,’ and found published therein a letter from Gen. Grant to you, written 
some time in the fall of 1863, when you were marching across the country 
from Memphis to re-enforce him at Chattanooga, in which Grant said, in 
substance, ‘Urge on Steele the necessity of sending you Kimball’s division 
of the Sixteenth Corps.’ * General,” said I, “that meant us; it meant me; for 
my regiment was in Kimball’s division, with Gen. Steele, in Arkansas. Now 
my point is, I am afraid that you didn’t ‘urge’ Steele strongly enough, for we 
never got to you, and,” I continued, (in a tone of deep and sincere earnest¬ 
ness), “consequently we missed Missionary Ridge, the campaign of Atlanta, 
the, March to the Sea, and the campaign of the Carolinas,—and I shall re¬ 
gret it as long as I live!” I noted with interest the change in the old Gen¬ 
eral’s countenance as I made my little speech. His face lighted up, his eyes 
sparkled, the scowl disappeared, and when I concluded he laughed heartily. 
“Didn’t need you; didn’t need you,” he said; “had men enough,—and, let 
me tell you,—Steele needed every d—d. man he had.” It was quite evident 
that the General enjoyed the recital of my little alleged grievance, and he 
launched into a most interesting account of some incidents connected with 
the campaigns I had mentioned. I became fearful that we were imposing on 
his good nature, and two or three times started to leave. But with a word or 
gesture he would detain me, and keep talking. * And when I finally did de¬ 
part, he followed me out into the hall, and laying his hand on my shoulder 
in a most fatherly way, said, “Say! Whenever you are in Washington, come 
and see me! Don’t be afraid! I like to see and talk with you boys!” 
and with a hearty shake of the hand he bade me good-by. He was a grand 
old man, and we common soldiers of the western armies loved him. 

In going home on our veteran furlough, the regiment went by steamer 
down White river, thence up the Mississippi to Cairo, where we debarked and 
took the cars, and went to Springfield, Illinois, arriving there August 24th. 
The Mississippi was low, and our progress up the river was very slow. Two 
or three times our boat grounded on bars, and after trying in vain to “spar 
off,” had to wait until some other boat came along, and pulled us off by 
main strength. Near Friar’s Point, not far below Helena, where there was 
a long, shallow bar, the captain of the steamer took the precaution to light¬ 
en his boat by landing us all on the west bank of the river, and we walked 
along the river’s margin for two or three miles to the head of the bar, where 
the boat came to the shore, and took us on again. Our officers assured us 
that our thirty days furlough would not begin until the day we arrived at 
Springfield, so these delays did not worry us, and we endured them with 
much composure. 

On this entire trip, on account of a matter that was purely personal, I 
was in a state of nervous uneasiness and anxiety nearly all the time As 
heretofore stated, just a few days before starting home we were paid six 
months’ pay, and our veteran bounty, the amount I received being $342.70. 
Several of the recruits and non-veterans whose homes were in my neigh¬ 
borhood gave me different amounts that had been paid them, with the re- 


* See “Military History of Ulysses S. Grant.” by Adam Badeau, Vol. 1, page 456. 



THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


123 


quest that I take this money home and hand it to their fathers, or other 
persons they designated. So, when we started, I had the most money on my 
person I ever had had before, and even since. The exact amount is now 
forgotten, but it was something over fifteen hundred dollars. Of nights I 
slept on the hurricane deck of the boat, with the other boys, and in the day 
time was mingling constantly with the enlisted men, and with all that money 
in my pocket. Of course, I said nothing about it, and had cautioned the boys 
who trusted me with this business also to say nothing, but whether they had 
all complied with my request I didn’t know. I kept the money (which, ex¬ 
cept a little postal currency, was all in greenbacks,) in my inside jacket 
pocket during the day time, didn’t take off my trousers at night, and then 
stowed the bills on my person at a place—well, if a prowling hand had invaded 
the locality, it would have waked me quick! But I finally got home with all the 
money intact, duly paid the trust funds over to the proper parties, and then 
felt greatly relieved. 

When the regiment arrived at Springfield we stored our muskets and 
accouterments in a public building, and then dispersed for our respective 
homes. I arrived at the Stillwell home the following day, August 25th, and 
received a hearty welcome. 

But the admission must be made that I didn’t enjoy this furlough near 
as much as the individual one of the preceding autumn, for reasons I will 
state. You see, we were all at home now, that is, the veterans, and there 
were several hundred of us, and it seemed as if the citizens thought that 
they must do everything in their power to show how much they appreciated 
us. So there was something going on nearly all the time; parties, oyster 
suppers, and gatherings of all sorts. There was a big picnic affair held in 
the woods at the Sansom Spring which was attended by a crowd of people. 
A lawyer came down from Jerseyville and made us a long speech on this oc¬ 
casion, in which he refreshed our recollection as to our brave deeds and pa¬ 
triotic services in battle, and in camp and field generally, which was doubt¬ 
less very fine. It is true, I spent several very happy days at home, with 
my own folks, but they were frequently broken in on by the neighbors, com¬ 
ing and going, who wanted to see and talk with “Leander.” And the girls! 
bless their hearts! They were fairly ready to just fall down and worship us. 
But I was young, awkward, and exceedingly bashful, and can’ now see clear¬ 
ly that I didn’t respond to their friendly attentions with the same alacrity 
and heartiness that would have obtained had I been, say, ten years older. 
The French have a proverD with a world of meaning in it, something like 
this: “If youth but knew-—if old age could!” But probably it is best as it is. 

When home on our veteran furlough a sad event occurred which direct¬ 
ly affected the regiment, and which it can be truly said every member there¬ 
of sincerely deplored. This was the death of Lieut. Col. Simon P. Ohr. He 
never was a strong man, physically, and the hardships and exposures inci¬ 
dent to an army life were really the cause of his death. He died at his 
home, in Carrollton, Illinois, of a bronchial affection, on September 14th, 
1864. He was a man of temperate habits, honest and upright, and a sterling 
patriot. As an officer, he was kind, careful as to the wants and necessities 
of his men, and in cattle, cool, clear-headed, and brave. In due course of 
time Maj. Daniel Grass was appointed to the office of Lieutenant-Colonel, to 
fill the vacancy this created by the lamented death of Col. Ohr. 

The regiment rendezvoused at Springfield on September Zbcn, and left 
on the next day, on the cars, went to St. Louis, and were quartered in the 
Hickory street Barracks, in the city. Another “Price Raid” was now on. 
Only a few days previously Gen. Sterling Price with a strong force, includ¬ 
ing, of course, Shelby’s cavalry, entered southeast Missouri, and the day we 
arrived at St. Louis he showed up* at Pilot Knob, only about 85 miles south 
of the city, where some sharp fighting occurred. There was now the big¬ 
gest kind of a “scare” prevailing in St. Louis, and, judging from all the talk 
one heard, we were liable to hear the thunder of Price’s cannon on the out¬ 
skirts of St. Louis any day. We had been at Hickory street Barracks only 


124 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


a day or two, when my company, and companies B and G, were detached 
from the regiment, embarked on a steamboat, and went down the Mississip¬ 
pi to the town of Chester, Illinois, which is situated on the Mississippi, at 
the mouth of the Kaskaskia river. We were sent here ror the purpose, as 
we understood at the time, of guarding the crossing of the Mississippi at this 
place, and to prevent any predatory Confederate raid in that vicinity. We 
were quartered in some large vacant warehouses near the river, and had no 
guard duty to perform except a guard at the ferry landing, and a small one 
over our commissary stores. Altogether, it was the “softest'’ piece of sol¬ 
diering that fell to my lot during all my service. We had roofs over our 
heads and slept at night where it was dry and warm, it was ideal autumn 
weather, and we just idled around, careless, contented, and happy. One 
lovely October day Bill Banfield and I in some way got a skiff, and early 
in the morning rowed over the river to the Missouri side, and spent the day 
there, strolling about in the woods. The country was wild and rough, and 
practically in a state of nature. We confined our rambling to the river bot¬ 
tom, which was broad and extensive, and densely covered with a primeval 
forest. Some of the trees, especially the sycamores and the cottonwoods, 
were of giant size. And the woods abounded in nuts and wild fruits; hickory 
nuts, walnuts, pecans, pawpaws, big wild grapes,—and persimmons, but 
the latter were not yet ripe. This locality was in Perry county, Missouri, 
and it seemed to be destitute of inhabitants; we saw two or three log cab¬ 
ins, but they were old, decayed, and deserted. We had brought some bacon 
and hardtack with us in our haversacks, and at noon built a fire and had an 
army dinner, with nuts and fruit for dessert. We got back to Chester about 
sundown, having had a most interesting and delightful time. 

There was another little incident that happened while we were at Ches¬ 
ter, which I have always remembered with pleasure. Between companies 
D and G of our regiment was a strong bond of friendship. Many of the boys 
of the two companies had lived in the same neighborhood at home, and were 
acquainted with each other before enlisting. The first sergeant of G was 
Pressley T. Rice, a grown man, and some five 1 or six years my senior. He 
came to me one day soon after our arrival at Chester, and in his peculiar 
nasal tone, said, “Stillwell, some of my boys think that when we are sol¬ 
diering here in ‘God’s Country,’ they ought to have soft bread to eat. If 
‘D’ feels the same, let’s go down to the mill, and buy a barrel of flour for 
each company, and give the boys a rest on hardtack.” I heartily assented, 
but asked what shoulu we do about paying for it, as the boys were now pret¬ 
ty generally strapped. Press responded that we’d get the flour “on tick,” 
and settle for it at our next pay day. To my inquiry if we should take Com¬ 
pany B in on the deal (the other company with us at Chester), Press dryly 
responded that B could rooc for themselves; that this was a “cahootnership” 
of D and G only. Without further ceremony we went to the mill, which was 
a fair-sized concern, and situated, as I now remember, in tne lower part or 
the town, and near the river bank. We found one of the proprietors, and 
Press made known to him our business, in words substantially the same as 
he had used in broaching the matter to me, with some little additional ex¬ 
planation. He told the miller that the only bread we had was hardtack, 
that the boys accepted that cheerfully when we were down South, but that 
here in “God’s Country,” in our home state of Illinois, uiey thought they 
were entitled to “soft bread,” so we had come to him to buy two barrels of 
flour; that the boys had not the money now to pay for it, but at our next 
pay day they would, and we would see to it that the money should be sent 
him. While thus talking, the miller looked at us with “narrowed eyes,” and; 
as it seemed to me, didn’t feel a bit enthusiastic about the proposition. But 
maybe he thought that if he didn’t sell us the flour, we might take it anyhow, 
so, making a virtue of necessity, he said he would let us have it, the price 
■of two barrels being, as I now remember, seven dollars. I produced my lit¬ 
tle memorandum book, and requested him to write the name and address 
of his firm therein, which he did, in pen and ink, and it is there yet, in that 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


125 


same little old book, now lying open before me, and reads as follows: 

“H. C. Cole & Co., 

Chester, Ill.” 

Well, lie sent us the flour, and D and G had soft bread the balance of the 
time we were at Chester. 

I will now anticipate a few months, in order to finish the account of this 
incident. The spring of 1865 found the regiment at Franklin, Tennessee, and 
while there the paymaster made us a welcome visit. I then went to Press 
Rice, and suggested to him that the time had now come for us to pay the 
Chester miller for his flour, and he said he thought so too. We sat down at 
the foot of a tree and made out a list of all the boys of our respective com¬ 
panies who, at Chester, helped eat the bread made from the flour, and who 
were yet with us, and then assessed each one with the proper sum he should 
contribute, in order to raise the entire amount required. Of course the boys 
paid it cheerfully. Press turned over to me the proportionate sum of his 

company, and requested me to attend to the rest of the business, which I 

did. I wrote a letter to the firm of H. C. Cole & Co., calling their attention 

to the fact of our purchase from them of two barrels of flour in October of 

the previous year, and then went on to say that several of the boys who 
had taken part in eating the bread made from this flour had since then been 
killed in battle, or died of diseases incident to a soldier’s life, but there were 
yet enough of us left to pay them for their flour, and that I here inclosed 
the proper sum. (I have forgotten in just what manner or form it was sent, 
but think it was by express.) In due course of time I received an answer, 
acknowledging receipt of the money, written in a very kind and compli¬ 
mentary vein. After heartily thanking us for the payment, the letter went 
on to state that in all the business dealings of H. C. Cole & Co., with Union 
soldiers the firm hau been treated with fairness and remarkable honesty, 
and they sincerely appreciated it. 

Many years later out in Kansas I met a man who had lived in Ches¬ 
ter during the war, and told him the foregoing little story. He said he knew 
the milling firm of Cole & Co., quite well, and that during the war they were 
most intense and bitter Copperheads, and had no use whatever for “Lincoln 
hirelings,” as Union soldiers were sometimes called by the “Butternut” ele¬ 
ment. My informant was a respectable, truthful, man, so it is probable that 
his statement was correct. It served to throw some light on the grim con¬ 
duct of the miller with whom Press and I dealt. But they treated us well, 
and if they were of the type above indicated, it is hoped that the little ex¬ 
perience with us may have caused them to have a somewhat kindlier feel¬ 
ing for Union soldiers than the one they may have previously entertained. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


EXPEDITION TO NORTH MISSOURI.—BACK IN TENNESSEE ONCE 
MORE.—MURFREESBORO.—OCTOBER AND NOVEMBER, 1864. 

© N OCTOBER 14th WE LEFT Chester on the steamer “A. Jacobs,” and 
went to St. Louis, where we arrived on the 15th, and marched out to La¬ 
clede Station, about six miles from St. Louis, on the Pacific railroad, where 
we found the balance of the regiment. There was a railroad bridge at this 
place, over a small stream, and I suppose that during the scare at St. Louis 
it was deemed prudent to have a force here to guard the bridge. On October 
19th the regiment left Laclede, and went by rail on the North Missouri rail¬ 
road, to Mexico, in Audrain county, Missouri, about 110 miles northwest of 
St. Louis. Here we reported to Col. Samuel A. Holmes, Colonei of the 40th 
Missouri Infantry. We left Mexico October 21st and marched northward 
25 miles to Paris, the county seat of Monroe county. There was a body of 
irregular Confederate cavalry, supposed to be about 500 strong, under the 
command of a Col. McDaniel, operating in this region, and carrying on a 
sort of predatory and uncivilized warfare. We learnt that it was our busi¬ 
ness up here to bring this gang to battle, and destroy them if possible, or, 
failing in that, to drive them out of the country. Our force consisted of about 
700 infantry,—the 40th Missouri and the 61st Illinois, and a detachment of 
about 300 cavalry, whose name and number I have forgotten. Our cavalry 
caught up with the Confederates at Paris,. and had a little skirmish with 
them, but before the infantry could get on the ground the enemy lit out as 
fast as their horses could carry them. We lay‘that night at Paris, and the 
next day (the 22nd,) marched to the little town of Florida, where we bivouack¬ 
ed for the night. It .was a small place, situated on a high, timbered ridge, 
between the main Saif'river and one of its forks. With the exception that 
it was not a county seat, it was practically a counterpart of the little village 
of Springfield, Arkansas, hereinbefore mentioned. It had only one street of 
any consequence, and all up and down this street, in several places right in 
the middle thereof, were grand, imposing native trees, such as oaks, and hick¬ 
ories. But the place was now totally deserted, and looked lonesome and 
desolate. I ascertained several years later that it was the birthplace of 
Samuel L. Clemens, the author,—better known under his pen-name,— 
“Mark Twain.” It is also an interesting circumstance that the. first military 
operation conducted by Gen. U. S. Grant was a movement in the summer of 
1861 on this little village of Florida, with the intention and expectation of 
giving battle to a Confederate force in camp near the town. (Grant’s Me¬ 
moirs, 1st Edition, Vol. 1, pp. 248, et seq.). 

The next day (the 23rd,) we turned south, and marched to the little 
town of Santa Fe, and the next day thereafter back to Paris, where we re¬ 
mained a day. On the 26th we went to Middle Grove, and on the following 
day again reached the railroad at Allen, some distance norihwest of Mexico, 
where we first started out. It would seem that this little station of Allen 
has, since the war, disappeared from the map,—at least, I can’t find it. On 
this expedition the infantry never caught a glimpse of an armed Confed¬ 
erate, but the object of the movement was accomplished. We kept after 
our foes so persistently that they left that locality, crossed the Missouri 
river, joined Price’s army, and with it left the State. At this time the sec¬ 
tion of country over which we marched in the pifrsuit of McDaniel’s com¬ 
mand is now all gridironed by railroads, but in 1864 there were only two 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 127 


the North Missouri, running northwest from St. Louis to Macon, and the 
Hannibal ^nd St. Joe, connecting those two places and extending from the 
Mississippi river on the east, to the Missouri river on the west. We always 
remembered this scout up in north Missouri with feelings of comfort and 
satisfaction. Compared with some of our Arkansas marches, it was just a 
pleasure excursion. The roads were in good condition, and the weather was 
fine;—ideal Indian summer days. And in the fruit and vegetable line we 
lived high. The country through which we passed abounded in the finest 
of winter apples, Little Romanites and Jennetings being the chief varieties. 
The farmers had gathered and piled them in the orchards in conical heaps 
and covered them with straw and earth sufficient to keep them from freez¬ 
ing. We soon learnt what those .little earth mounds signified, and, as a 
matter of course, confiscated the apples instanter. And the country was 
full of potatoes, cabbages, and turnips, on which we foraged with great liber¬ 
ality. If any apology for this line of conduct should be thought proper, it 
may be said that many of the farms were at this time abandoned, the own¬ 
ers having fled to the garrisoned towns to escape the Confederate raiders; 
further, if we hadn’t taken this stuff our adversaries would, if by chance 
they happened again to infest that locality. Anyhow, a hungry soldier is 
not troubled, in such matters, by nice ethical distinctions. We remained at 
Allen on the 28th, and until the evening of the following day, when we left 
there on the cars for St. Louis. But sometime near midnight the train stop¬ 
ped at Montgomery City, about midway between Allen and St. Louis, we 
were roused up, and ordered to get off and form in line, which we did. Our 
officers then proceeded to give us careful instructions, to the effect that a 
band of Confederate cavalry was believed to be at Danville, out in the coun¬ 
try a few miles south, and that we were going there to surprise and capture 
this party, if possible, We were strictly enjoined to refrain from talking 
and singing, and to remain absolutely silent in ranks. We then fell into 
column and marched for Danville, where we arrived an hour or so before 
dawn. But our birds, (if there when we started from Montgomery,) had 
flown—there were no Confederates there. A party of guerrillas had been in 
the town about two weeks before, who had murdered five or six unarmed citi¬ 
zens, (including one little boy about eight or ten years old,) and it was be¬ 
lieved when we started to march out here that this gang, or some of them, 
had returned. The party that had previously raided Danville were under 
the command of one Bill Anderson, a blood-thirsty desperado, with no more 
humanity about him than an Apache Indian. He was finally killed in battle 
with some Union troops about the last of October, 1864. When killed there 
was found on his person a commission as Colonel in the Confederate army, 
signed by Jefferson Davis, and the brow-band of his horse’s bridle was dec¬ 
orated with two human scalps. (See “The Civil War on the Border,” by 
Wiley Britton, Vol. 2, p. 546). He was of tnat class of men of which Quan- 
trell, and the James and Younger boys were fitting types, and who were a 
disgrace to mankind. 

iSometime during the day (October 30th,) we marched back to Mont¬ 
gomery City, got on the cars, and again Started for St. Louis, where we ar¬ 
rived the next day, and marched out to old Benton Barracks, where we took 
up our quarters for the time being. So we were once more “tenting on the 
old camp ground,” after an absence of nearly three years. But the place did 
not look as it did before. It seemed old and dilapidated and there were 
only a few troops there. As compared with the active, stirring conditions 
that obtained there in February and March, 1862, it now looked indescrib¬ 
ably dejected and forlorn. But our stay here this time was short. We left 
on November 5th, marched into St. Louis, and down to the wharf, where we 
embarked on the steamer “David Tatum,” and started up the Mississippi. 
We were puzzled for a while as to what this meant, but soon found out. We 
were told that the regiment was being sent home to vote at the ensuing pres¬ 
idential election which would occur on November 8th, that we would take 
the cars at Alton and go to Springfield, and from there to our respective 


128 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


homes. We surely were glad that we were going to be granted this favor. 
The most of the States had enacted laws authorizing their soldiers to vote 
in the field, but the Illinois legislature since 1862 had been Democratic in 
politics, and that party at that time in our State was not favorably disposed 
to such a measure. Consequently the legislature in office had failed to pass 
any law authorizing their soldier constituents to vote when away from home. 
We arrived at Alton about 9 o’clock on the evening of the 5th, and found a 
train awaiting us, (box cars,) which we at once climbed on. We had just 
got our guns and other things stowed away in corners, and were proceeding 
to make ourselves comfortable for a night ride to Springfield, when Lt. Wal¬ 
lace came down from the officers’ coach, and stopped at the Co. D car. 
“Boys,” he called, “get out, and fall in line here by the track. The order to go 
to Springfield has been countermanded by telegraphic dispatch, and we are 
ordered back to St. Louis.” “What! What’s that?” we exclaimed, in astonish¬ 
ment. “It’s so,” said Wallace, in a tone of deep regret; “Get out.” “Well, 
don’t that beat hell!” was the next remark of about a dozen of us. But or¬ 
ders are orders, and there was nothing to do but obey. The curses of the 
disappointed soldiers in thus having this cup of satisfaction dashed from 
their lips were ‘not loud, but deep.” But we all swung down from the cars, 
fell in, and marched back to and on board the “David Tatum,” and were back 
at the wharf in St. Louis by next morning. We stacked arms on the levee, 
and the next morning, November 7th, left St. Louis on the steamer “Jennie 
rirown,” headed down stream. So here we were again on tne broad Mis¬ 
sissippi, duplicating our beginning of March, 1862, and once more bound 
foi “Dixie’s Land.” By this time we had become philosophical and indif¬ 
ferent in regard to the ups and downs of our career. If we had been or¬ 
dered some night to be ready the next morning to start to California, or 
Maine, the order would have been treated with absolute composure, and 
after a few careless or sarcastic remarks, we would have turned over and 
been asleep again in aoout a minute. We had made up our minds that we 
were out to see the war through, and were determined in our conviction 
that we were going to win in the end. 

Election day, xNOvember 8th, was densely foggy, so much so that the 
captain of our steamboat thought it not prudent to proceed, so the boat tied 
up that day and nignc at the little town of Wittenburg, on the Missouri shore. 
Mainly to pass away the time the officers concluded to hold a “mock” regi¬ 
mental presidential election. The most of the line officers were Democrats, 
and were supporting Gen. McClellan for President in opposition to Mr. Lin¬ 
coln, and they were quite confident that a majority of the regiment favor¬ 
ed McClellan, so they were much in favor of holding an election. An elec¬ 
tion board was chosen, fairly divided between the supporters of the respec¬ 
tive candidates, and the voting began. As our votes wouldn’t count in the 
official result, every soldier, regardless of age, was allowed to vote. But 
at this time I was a sure-enough, legal voter, having attained my twenty- 
first year on the 16th of the preceding September. You may rest assured 
that I voted for “Uncle Abe,” good and strong. When the votes were count¬ 
ed, to the astonishment of nearly all of us, Mr. Lincoln was found to have 
sixteen majority. As the regiment was largely Democratic when it left Il¬ 
linois in February, 18b^, this vote showed that the political opinions of the 
rank and file had, in the meantime, undergone a decided change. 

We left Wittenburg on the forenoon of the 9th, but owing to the foggy 
conditions our progress was very slow. We reached Cairo on the 10th, and 
from there proceeded up the Ohio, and on the 11th arrived at Paducah, Ken¬ 
tucky, where we debarked, and went into camp. We remained here nearly 
two weeks, doing nothing but the ordinary routine of camp duty, so life here 
was quite uneventful. Paducah was then an old, sleepy, dilapidated river 
town with a population, at the outbreak of the war, of about four thousand. 
After our brief stay here terminated I never was at the place again until 
in October, 1914, when I was there for about a day, which was devoted to 
rambling about the town. The flight of fifty years had made great changes 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


129 


in Paducah. It now had a population of about twenty-five thousand, four 
different lines of railroad, street cars, electric lights, and a full supply gen¬ 
erally of all the other so-called “modern conveniences.” On this occasion I 
hunted faithfully and persistently for the old camp ground of the regiment 
in 1864, but couldn’t find it, nor even any locality that looked like it. 

On the evening of November 24th the regiment left Paducah on the lit¬ 
tle stern-wheel steamboat “Rosa D,” which steamed up the Ohio river, as far 
as the mouth of the Cumberland, there turned to the right, and proceeded 
to ascend that stream. That move told the story of our probable destina¬ 
tion, and indicated to us that we were doubtless on our way to Nashville 
to join the army of Gen. Thomas. There was another boat that left Paducah 
the same time we did, the “Masonic Gem,” a stern-wheeler of about the 
same size of our boat. It was also transporting a regiment of soldiers, 
whose name and number I have forgotten. The captains of the two boats, 
for some reason or other, lashed their vessels together, side by side, and 
in this manner we made the greater part of the trip. In going up the Cum¬ 
berland the regiment lost two men by drowning: Henry Miner, of Co. D, and 
Perry Crochett, of Co. G. There was something of a mystery in regard to 
the death of Miner. He was last seen about nine o’clock in the evening on 
the lower deck of the boat, close to where the two boats were lashed to¬ 
gether. It was supposed that in some manner he missed his footing, and 
fell between the boats, and was at once sucked under by the current and 
drowned. His cap was discovered next* morning on the deck near the place 
where he was last observed, but no other vestige of him was ever found. 
The other soldier, Perry Crochett, stumbled and fell into the river in the 
day time, from the after part of the hurricane deck of the boat. He was 
perhaps stunned by the fall, for he just sank like a stone. The boats stopped, 
and a skiff was at once lowered and manned, and rowed out to the spot 
where he disappeared, and which lingered around there a short time, in 
the hope that he might come to the surface. His little old wool hat was 
floating around on the tops of the waves, but poor Perry was never seen 
again. There was nothing that could be done, so the skiff came back to the 
boat, was hoisted aboard, the bells rang the signal “go ahead,” and we went 
on. Miner and Crochett were both young men, about my own age, and had 
been good and brave soldiers. Somehow it looked hard and cruel that after 
over three years faithful service they were fated at last to lose their lives 
by drowning in the cold waters of the Cumberland, and be devoured by cat¬ 
fish and snapping turtles,—but such are among the chances in the life of a 
soldier. 

On our way up the Cumberland we passed the historic Fort Donelson, 
where Gen. Grant in February, 1862, gained his first great victory. There 
was, at that time, desperate and bloody fighting at and near the gray 
earthen walls of the old fort. Now there was only a small garrison of Un¬ 
ion troops here, and with that exception, the place looked about as quiet 
and peaceful as some obscure country graveyard. 

We arrived at Nashville after dark on the evening of the 27th, remained 
on the boat that night, debarked the next morning, and in the course of 
that day, (the 28th,) took the cars on what was then known as the Nashville 
and Chattanooga railroad, and went to Murfreesboro, about thirty miles 
southeast of Nashville. Here we went into camp inside of Fortress Rose- 
crans, a strong and extensive earthwork built under the direction of Gen. 
Rosecrans soon after the battle of Murfreesboro, in January, 1863. 


t 


4 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE AFFAIR AT OVERALL’S CREEK.—MURFREESBORO.—DECEMBER, 

1864. 

T HE INVASION OF TENNESSEE by the Confederate army under the 
command of Gen. J. B. Hood was now on, and only a day or two after 
our arrival at Murfreesboro we began to hear the sullen, deep-toned boom¬ 
ing of lartillery towards the west, and later northwest in the direction of Nash¬ 
ville. And this continued, with more or less frequency, until the termination, 
on December 16th, of the battle of Nashville, which resulted in the defeat of 
the Confederates, and their retreat from the State. About December 3rd, the 
Confederate cavalry, under the command of our old acquaintance, Gen. N. B. 
Forrest, swung in between Nashville and Murfreesboro, tore up the railroad, 
and cut us off from Nashville for about two weeks. The Union forces at Mur¬ 
freesboro at this time consisted of about 6,000 men,—infantry, cavalry, and 
artillery, (but principally infantry), under tne command of Gen. L. H. Rous¬ 
seau. 

December 4th, 1864, was a pleasant, beautiful day, at old Murfreesboro. 
The sun was shining bright and warm, the air was still, and the weather 
conditions were like those at home during Indian summer in October. Along 
about the middle of the afternoon, without a single note of preliminary warn¬ 
ing, suddenly came the heavy “boom” of cannon close at hand, in a north¬ 
westerly direction. We at once ran up on the ramparts, and looking up the 
railroad towards Nashville, could plainly see the blue rings of powder-smoke 
curling upwards above the trees. But we didn’t look long. Directly after 
we heard the first report, the bugles in our camp and others began sounding 
“Fall in!” We hastily formed in line, and in a very short time the 61st Il¬ 
linois and two other regiments of infantry, the 8th Minnesota and the 174th 
Ohio, with a section of artillery, all under the command of Gen. R. H. Milroy, 
filed out of Fortress Rosecrans, and proceeded in the direction of this can¬ 
nonading. About four miles out from Murfreesboro we came to the scene 
of the trouble. The Confederates had opened with their artillery on one of 
our railroad block-houses, and were trying to demolish or capture it. The 
13th Indiana Cavalry had preceded us to the spot, and were skirmishing with 
the enemy. Our regiment formed in line on the right of the pike, the Min¬ 
nesota regiment to our right, and the Ohio regiment on the left, while our ar¬ 
tillery took a position on some higher ground near the pike, and began ex¬ 
changing shots with that of the enemy. The position of our regiment was 
on the Either slope of a somewhat high ridge, in the woods, with a small 
stream called Overall’s creek running parallel to our front. We were stand¬ 
ing here at ease, doing nothing, and I slipped up on the crest of the ridge, “to 
see what I could see.” The ground on the opposite side of the creek was 
lower than ours, and was open, except a growth of rank grass and weeds. And 
I could plainly see the skirmishers of the enemy, in “butternut” clothing, 
skulking in the grass and weeds, and occasionally firing in our direction.’ 
They looked real tempting, so I hurried back to the regiment, and going to 
Capt. Keeley told him that the Confederate skirmishers were just across 
the creek, in plain sight, and asked him if I couldn’t slip down .the brow of 
the ridge and take a few shots at them. He looked ia;t me kind of queerly, 
and said: “You stay right where you are, and tend to your own business! 
You’ll have plenty of shooting before long.” I felt a little bit hurt at his re¬ 
mark, but made no reply, and resumed my place in the ranks. But he after- 

130 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


131 


wards made me a sort of apology for his brusque reproof, saying he had no 
desire to see me perhaps throw my life away in a performance not within 
the scope of my proper and necessary duty. And he was right, too, in his 
prediction .that there would soon be “plenty of shooting.' I had just taken 
my place in the ranks when a mounted staff officer came galloping up, and 
accosting a little group of our line officers, asked, with a strong German ac¬ 
cent, “Iss ziss ze 61st Illinois?” and on being told that it was, next inquired 
for Col. Grass, who was pointed out to him. He rode to the Colonel, Who 
was near at hand, saluted him, and said, “Col. Grass, ze oheneral sends his 
compliments wiss ze order zat you immediately deploy your regiment as 
skirmishers, and forthwith advance on ze enemy, right in your front!” The 
recruits and non-veterans of the regiment being yet in Arkansas, its present 
effective strength hardly exceeded three hundred men, so there was just about 
enough of us to make a (Sufficient skirmish line, on this occasion, for the 
balance of the command. In obedience to the aforesaid order the regiment 
was promptly deployed as skirmishers, and the line advanced over the crest 
of the ridge in our front, and down the slope on the opposite side. At the 
bank of the creek a little incident befell me, which serves to show how a 
very trifling thing may play an important part in one’s fate. ± happened to 
reach the creek at a point opposite.a somewhat deep pool. The water was 
clear and cold, and I disliked the idea of having wet feet on the skirmish 
line, and looked around for a place where it was possible to cross dry-shod. 
A rod or two above me the stream was narrow, and where it could be jump¬ 
ed, so I started in a run for that place. The creek bank on my side was of 
yellow clay, high and perpendicular, while on the other margin the ground 
sloped gently upward. While running along the edge of the stream to the 
fording place, one of my feet caught on the end of a dead root projecting 
from the lower edge of the bank, and I pitched forward, and nearly fell. At 
the very instant of my stumble,—“thud” into the clay bank right opposite 
where I would have been, if standing, went a bullet fired by a Confederate 
skirmisher. He probably had taken deliberate aim at me, and on seeing me 
almost fall headlong, doubtless gave himself credit for another Yankee sent 
to the happy hqnting grounds. It is quite likely that owing to the existence 
of that old dead root, and my lucky stumble thereon, I am now here telling 
the story of this skirmish. By this time it was sunset, and darkness was 
approaching, but we went on. The Confederate skirmishers retired, but we 
soon developed their main line on some high ground near the edge of the 
woods,—and then we had to stop. We lay down, loaded and fired in that po¬ 
sition, and nearly all of the enemy’s balls passed over our heads. Presently 
it grew quite dark, and all we had to aim at was the long horizontal sheet of 
red flame that streamea from the muskets of the Confederates. In the mean 
time the artillery of both parties was still engaged in their duel, and their 
balls and shells went screaming over our heads. Occasionally a Confederate 
shell would explode right over us, and looked interesting, but did no harm. 
While all this firing was at its liveliest, I heard close by the heavy ‘thud” 
that a bullet makes in striking a human body, followed immediately by a 
sharp cry of “O! ” which meant that some one had been hit. It proved to be Lieu¬ 
tenant Elijah Corrington, of Co. F. He was struck by the ball in the region 
of the heart, and expired almost instantly. He was a good man, and a brave 
soldier, and his death was sincerely mourned. 

The affair was terminated by the 174th Ohio on our left getting around on 
the enemy’s right flank, where it poured in a destructive volley, and the 
Confederates retired. We followed a short distance, but neither saw nor 
heard anything more of the enemy, so we finally retired also. We recrossed 
the creek, built some oig fir.es out of dry chestnut rails, which we left burning 
in order, I suppose, to make our foes believe we were still there, and march- 
to Murfreesboro, where we arrived about midnight. 

On the two following days, December 5 and 6, the Confederates showed 
themselves to the west of us, and demonstrated most ostentatiously against 
Murfreesboro. From where we stood, on the ramparts of Fortress Rosecrans 


132 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


we could plainly see their columns in motion, with flags flying, circling 
around us as if looking for a good opening. They were beyond the range 
of musketry, but our big guns in the fortress opened on them and gave them 
a most noisy cannonading, but what the effect was I don’t know,—probaDly 
not much. In the battles of the Civil War artillery playing on infantry at 
short range with grape and canister did frightful execution, of which I saw 
plenty of evidence at Shiloh, but at a distance, and firing with solid shot or 
shell, it simply made a big noise, and if it killed anybody, it was more'an ac¬ 
cident than otherwise. 

Beginning about December 5th, and continuing for several days there¬ 
after, we turned out at four o’clock every morning, fully armed, and manned 
the trenches in the rear of the breastworks, and remained there till after 
sunrise. It was a cold, chdly business, standing two or three hours in those 
damp trenches, with an empty stomach, waiting for an apprehended attack, 
which, however, was never made. For my part, I felt like I did when be¬ 
hind our big works in the rear of Vicksburg, and sincerely hoped that the 
other fellows would make an attempt to storm our defenses, and I think 
the other boys felt tne same way. We would have shot them down just like 
pigeons, and the artillery in the corner bastions, charged with grape and 
canister, would have played its part too. But the Confederates had no in¬ 
tention of making any attempt of this nature. The Official Records of the 
Rebellion hereinbefore mentioned contain the correspondence between Hood 
and Forrest concerning this movement on Murfreesboro, and which clearly 
disclose^ their schemes. The plan was simply to “scare” Rousseau out of 
Murfreesboro, and cause him to retreat in a northerly direction towards the 
town of Lebanon, and then, having gotten him out of his hole, to surround 
him in the open with tneir large force of cavalry, well supported by infantry, 
and capture all his command. But Rousseau didn’t “scare” worth a cent, as 
will appear later. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE BATTLE OF WILKINSON’S PIKE.—DECEMBER 7, 1864. 

TpARLY IN THE MORNING of December 7th, General Rousseau started 
out Gen. Milroy with seven regiments of infantry (which included our 
regiment), a battery of artillery, and a small detachment of cavalry, to find 
out what Gen. Forrest wanted. Our entire force consisted of a trifle over 
thirty-three hundred men. We first marched south from Murfreesboro, on 
the Salem pike, but gradually executed a right wheel, crossed Stone river, 
and worked to the northwest. We soon jumped up the Confederate cavalry 
vedettes, and a portion of the 61st was thrown out as skirmishers, and acted 
with our cavalry in driving back these scattered outposts of the enemy. Fin¬ 
ally, about noon, we ran up against'the main line of the Confederates, on the 
Wilkinson pike, protected by slight and hastily constructed breastworks, 
made of dirt, rails, and logs. Their artillery opened on us before we came in 
musket range, and we halted and formed in line of battle in some tall woods, 
with an open field in front. We were standing here in line when Gen. Milroy 
with some of his staff rode up right in front of our regiment, and stopped 
on a little elevated piece of ground. Then the old man took out his field 
glass, and proceeded carefully and deliberately to scrutinize the country be¬ 
fore him. My place in the line was only two or three rods from him, and I 
watched his proceedings with the deepest interest. He would look a while 
at the front, then sweep his glass to the right and scan that locality, then to 
the left and examine that region. While he was thus engaged, we all re¬ 
mained profoundly silent, his staff sat near him on their horses, also saying 
nothing. His survey of the country before him could not have lasted more 
than five minutes, but to me it seemed terribly long. At last he shut up 
his glass, returned it to its case, gave his horse a sort of a “haw” pull, and 
said something in a low tone to the different members of his staff, who 
forthwith dispersed in a gallop up and down our line. “Now,” thought I 
“something is going to happen.” One of the staff stopped and said some¬ 
thing to Col. Grass, and then came the command, “Attention, battalion! 
Shoulder arms! Face to the rear! Battalion, about face! Right shoulder shift, 
arms! Forward, guide center, march!” And that, I thought, told the story. 
The other fellows were too many for us, and we were going to back out. 
They probably had some one up a tree, watching us, for we had hardly begun 
our rearward movement before their artillery opened on us furiously, and 
the cannon balls went crashing through the tree tops, and bringing down the 
limbs in profusion. But as usual, the artillery hurt nobody, and we went on, 
quietly, and in perfect order. After retiring through the woods for some 
distance we gradually changed the direction of our march to the left, the 
result being that we executed an extensive left wheel, and pivoted towards 
the left flank of the enemy. Here our entire- regiment was deployed as 
skirmishers, and we again advainced. We later learned that the enemy had 
made all their preparations to meet us at the point where we first encount¬ 
ered their line, so they were not fully prepared for this new movement. 

Gen. Milroy, in his official report of the battle, in describing this advance, 
says: 

“The Sixty-First Illinois was deployed as skirmishers in front of the first 
line, [and the ]line advanced upon the enemy through the brush, cedars, 
rocks, and logs, under a heavy fire of artillery. * * * * Skirmishing with 

small arms began soon after commencing my advance, but my skirmish line 

133 


134 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


advanced, rapidly, bravely, and in splendid order, considering the mature of 
the ground, driving the rebels before them for about one mile,” [when their 
main line was struck]. See Serial number 93, Official Records of the War 
of the Rebellion, p. 618. 

As we were advancing in this skirmish line across an old cotton field, 
the Confederates ran forward a section of artillery, placed it on some rising 
ground and opened on us a rapid fire. The shot and shell fell all around us, 
throwing up showers oi red dirt, but doing no harm. While these guns were 
thus engaged, I noticed a large, fine-looking man, mounted on an iron gray 
horse, near one of the pieces, and who was intently watching our advance 
across the field. He evidently was a Confederate officer, and I thought pos¬ 
sibly of high rank, so, taking careful aim each time, I gave him two shots 
from “Trimthicket,” (the pet name of my old musket), but without effect, 
so far as was perceivable. After each shot he remained impassive in his 
saddle, and soon after galloped away. After the battle i talked about the 
incident with some of the Confederates we captured, and tney told me that 
this officer was Gen. Forrest himself. He was probably too far away when 1 
fired at him for effective work, but he doubtless heard the bullets and per¬ 
haps concluded that he had better not expose himself unnecessarily. 

Our skirmish line continued to advance across the cotton field before 
mentioned. In our front was a dense thicket of small cedars occupied by the 
Confederate skirmishers, and as we approached these woods our progress was 
somewhat slow. I happened to notice in the edge of the thicket, and only 
a few rods in my front, ia big, heavy log, which was lying parallel to our 
line, and would afford splendid protection. Thereupon I made a rush, and 
dropped behind this log. It was apparently a rail cut, and had been left 
lying on the ground. A little fellow of Co. H, named John Fox, a year or 
two my junior, saw me rush for this log, he followed me, and dropped down 
behind it also. He had hardly done this when he quickly called to me,— 
‘‘Look out, Stillwell! You’ll get shot!” I hardly understood just what caused 
his remark, but instinctively ducked behind the log, and, at that instant, 
“whisnsh” went a bullet from the front through the upper bark of the log, right 
opposite where my breast was a second or two before, scattering worm-dust 
and fragments of bark over my neck and shoulders. “I seed him a-takin’ aim,” 
dryly remarked little Fox. ‘‘Where is he?” I quickly inquired. ‘‘Right yonder;” 
answered Fox, indicating the place by pointing. I looked and saw the fellow— 
he was a grown man, in ia faded gray uniform, but before I could complete my 
hasty preparations to return his compliment he disappeared in the jungle of 
cedar. 

An incident will now be described, the result of which was very mortify¬ 
ing to me at the time, and which, to this day, I have never been able to 
understand, or account for. We had passed through the cedar woods before 
mentioned, and entered another old cotton field. And right in the hither edge 
of that field we came plump on a Confederate cavalry vedette, seated on his 
horse. The man had possibly been on duty all the previous night, and per¬ 
haps was now dozing in his saddle, or he never would have stayed for us to 
slip up on him as we did. But if asleep, he waked up promptly at this stage 
of the proceedings. An along our line the boys began firing at him, yelling 
as they did so. The moment I saw him, I said to myself, with an exultant 
thrill, “You’re my game.” He was a big fellow, broad across the back, wear¬ 
ing a wool hat, a gray jacket, and butternut trousers. My gun was loaded, 
I was all ready, and what followed didn’t consume much more than two 
seconds of time. I threw my gun to my shoulder, let the muzzle sink until 
I saw through the front and rear sights the center of that broad back—and 
then pulled the trigger. Porting my musket, I looked eagerly to the front, 
absolutely confident that my vision would rest on the horse flying riderless 
across the field, and the soldier lying dead upon the ground. But to my ut- 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER, 


135 


ter amazement, there was the fellow yet on his horse, and, like John Gilpin 
of old, going, 

“Like an arrow swift 

Shot by an archer strong.” 

He had a small gad, or switch, in his right hand, with which he was belab¬ 
oring his horse every jump, and, the upshot of the matter is he reached, and 
disappeared in, the woods beyond, without a scratch, so far as any of us on 
our side ever knew. How my shot happened to miss that man, is just one 
of the most unaccountable things that ever happened to me in my life. I was 
perfectly cool and collected at the time, and my nerves were steady as iron, 
he was a splendid mark, at close range, and I took a deadly aim. And then 
to think that all our other fellows missed him too! It was certainly a thing 
that surpasses all comprehension. 

At the time I am now writing these lines, a little over half a century 
has passed away since this incident occurred, and it will here be recorded 
that now I am sincerely thankful that I failed to kill that man. Consider¬ 
ing his marvelous escape on this occasion, the presumption is strong that he 
lived through the war, married some good woman, and became the father of 
a family of interesting children, and likely some one of his boys fought under 
the old flag in the Spanish-Ameriqan war,—so it is probably all for the best. 

But,—how in me world did I happen to miss him? 

Only a few minutes after this incident I experienced the closest call, (so 
far as can be stated with certainty,) that befell me during my service. On 
this day it so happened that Co. D was assigned a position on the extreme 
right of the skirmish line. This was not the regulation place for the com¬ 
pany in the regimental line, and just how this came about I don’t know, but 
so it was. As the first sergeant of D, my position was on the extreme right 
the company, consequently, I was the right hand man of the whole skir¬ 
mish line. We were continuing our advance across the field where we came 
on the vedette just mentioned, and all in high spirits. I had on a broad- 
brimmed felt hat, my overcoat, and beneath that what we called a “dress- 
coat,” with the ends of my trouser legs tucked in my socks, was carrying 
my gun at a ready, and eagerly looking for something to shoot at. There 
was a little bunch of Confederates in the woods on our right that were sort of 
“pot-shooting” at us as we were moving across the field, but we paid no at¬ 
tention to them, as the main force of the enemy was in our front. Sudden¬ 
ly I was whirled around on my feet like a top, and a sensation went through 
me similar, I suppose, to that which one feels when he receives an electric 
shock. I noticed that the breast of my overcoat was torn, but saw no blood 
nor felt any pain, so it was manifest that I wasn’t hurt. It was clear that 
the ball which struck me had come from the right, so some of us paid at¬ 
tention to those fellows at once, and they soon disappeared. At the first op¬ 
portunity after the battle was over I examined my clothes to find out what, this 
bullet had done. As stated, it came from the right, and first went through the 
cape of my overcoat, then through the right arm-sleeves of my overcoat and 
dress coat, thence through the right breast of both those coats, and then 
through the left breast thereof, and from thence went on its way. All told, 
it made nine holes in my clothes, but never touched my flesh. But it was 
a fine line-shot, and had it been two inches further back all would have been 
over with me. 

Just after this episode, as we approached a rise in the field we came in 
sight of the main line of the enemy, in the edge of the woods on the op¬ 
posite side of the field. The right wing of our skirmish line then took ground 
to the right and the other wing to the left in order to uncover our main line. 
It then marched up, and the action became general. The musketry firing on 
both sides was heavy and incessant, and, in addition, the enemy had a bat¬ 
tery of artillery which kept roaring most furiously. We also had a battery, 
but it was not now in evidence, the reason being, as we afterwards learnt, 
that it had exhausted its ammunition during the previous course of the day, 
and had returned to Fortress Rosecrans for a further supply, but before it 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


136 


got back the fight was over. The engagement had lasted only a '-short time, 
when the command was given to charge, and our whole line went forward. 
And thereupon I witnessed the bravest act that I ever saw performed by an 
officer of the rank of general. The regiment immediately on the left of the 
right wing of our regiment was the 174th Ohio. It was a new regiment, and 
had never been unuer fire but once before, that occasion being the affair 
at Overall’s creek three days’ previous. So, when we started on this charge, 

1 anxiously watched this big, new Ohio regiment, for it was perfectly plain 
that if it faltered, and went back, our little right wing of the 61st Illinois 
would have to do likewise. And presently that Ohio regiment stopped!—and 
then we stopped too. x looked at those Ohio fellows; there was that peculiar 
trembling, wavy motion along their line, which precedes a general going to 
pieces, and it seemed like the game was up. But just at that supreme mo¬ 
ment, old Gen. Milroy appeared, on his horse, right in front of thai Ohio reg¬ 
iment, at a point opposite the colors. He was bareheaded, holding his hat in 
his right hand, his long, heavy, iron-gray hair was streaming in the wind, and 
he was a most conspicuous mark. The Confederates were blazing away 
along their whole line, yelling like devils, and I fairly held my breath, ex¬ 
pecting to see the old General forthwith pitch headlong from his horse, rid¬ 
dled with bullets. But he gave the enemy very little time to practice on him. 

I was not close enough to hear what he said, but he called to those Ohio men 
in a ringing tone, and waved his hat. towards the enemy. The effect was in¬ 
stantaneous, and sublime. The whole line went forward with a furious yell, 
and surged over the Confederate works like a big blue wave,—and the day 
was ours! 

The Confederates retreated on a double quick, but in good order. We . 
captured two pieces of their artillery, a stand of colors, and about two hun¬ 
dred prisoners. We followed them a short distance, but saw them no more, 
and about sundown marched back to Fortress Rosecrans. But before finally 
passing from this affair, a few other things connected therewith will be men¬ 
tioned. 

As we went over the Confederate works on our charge, I saw lying on 
the ground, inside, a dead Confederate lieutenant-colonel. He was on his 
back, his broad-brimmed hat pulled over his face, and a pair of large gaunt¬ 
let gloves tucked in his belt. His sword was detached from the belt, in the 
scabbard, and was lying transversely across his body. As I ran by him I 
stooped down and with my left hand picked up the sword, and carried it 
along. I brought it to camp with me, kept it until we were mustered out, and 
then brought it home. Later a Masonic lodge was organized in Otterville, 
and some of the officers thereof borrowed from me this sword for the use 
oi the tiler of the lodge, in his official duties. In 1868 I came to Kansas, 
leaving the sword with the lodge. After the lapse of some years there came 
a time when I desired to resume possession of this relic of the war, but on 
taking action to obtain it, it was ascertained that in the meantime the lodge 
building, with all its furniture and paraphernalia, including the sword in 
question, had been accidently destroyed by fire. And thus passed away the 
enly trophy that I ever carried off a battlefield. Many years later I met here 
in Kansas the late Confederate Gen. John B. Gordon, of Georgia, and had 
a long and interesting conversation with him. I told him the facts con¬ 
nected with my obtaining this sword, and of its subsequent loss, as above 
stated. He listened to me with deep attention, and at the close of my story, 
said he was satisfied from my general description of the dead Confederate 
officer that the body on which I found the sword was that of W. W. Billopp, 
lieutenant-colonel of the 29th Georgia, who was killed in this action. Gen! 
Gordon also said that he was well acquainted with Col. Billopp in his life 
time, and that he was a splendid gentleman and a brave soldier. It has al¬ 
ways been a matter of regret with me that the sword was destroyed, for I 
intended, at the time I sought, to reclaim it from the Masonic lodge, to take 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


137 


steps to restore it to the family of the deceased officer, in the event that it 
could be done. 

When the Confederates retired from this battlefield of December 7th, they 
left their dead and severely wounded on the field, as it was impossible for 
(them to do otherwise. I walked around among these unfortunates, and look¬ 
ed at them, and saw some things that made me feel sorrowful indeed. I # 
looked in the haversacks of some of the dead to see what they,had to eat,— 
and what do you suppose was found? Nothing but raw, shelled corn! And 
many of them were barefooted, and judging from appearances, had been so 
indefinitely. Their feet were almost as black as those of a negro, with the 
skin wrinkled and corrugated to that extent that it looked like the hide of an 
alligator. These things inspired in me a respect for the Confederate sol¬ 
diers that I never had felt before. The political leaders of the Davis and 
Toombs type who unnecessarily brought about the war, are, in my opinion, 
deserving of the severest condemnation. But there can be no question that the 
common soldiers of the Confederate army acted from the most deep-seated 
convictions ofj~ftstice and the righteousness of their cause, and the fortitude 
and bravery they displayed in support of it are worthy of the highest ad¬ 
miration. 

After the engagement of December 7th, the Confederates still remained 
in our vicinity, and showed themselves at intervals, but made no aggressive 
movement. Cold weather set in about this time, the ground was covered with 
sleet, and our situation, cooped up in Fortress Rosecrans, was unpleasant and 
disagreeable. We had long ago turned in our big Sibley tents, and drawn in 
place of them what we called “pup-tents.” They were little, squatty things, 
composed of different sections of canvass that could be unbuttoned and tak¬ 
en apart, and carried by the men when on a march. They were large enough 
for only two occupants, and there were no facilities for building fires in them, 
as in the case of the Sibleys. Owing to the fact that the Confederates were 
all around us we were short of fire-wood too. Stone river ran through the 
fortress, and there were some big logs in the river, which I suppose had 
been there ever since the work was constructed, and we dragged them out 
and used them to eke out our fires. They were all water-soaked, and hardly 
did more than smoulder, but they helped some. At night we would crowd 
into those little pup-tents, lie down with all our clothes on, wrap up in our 
blankets and try to sleep, but with poor success. I remember that usually 
about midnight I would “freeze out,” and get up and stand around those sob¬ 
bing, smouldering logs,—and shiver. To make matters worse, we were put 
on half rations soon alter we came to Murfreesboro, and full rations were not 
issued until the Confederates retreated from Nashville after the battle of 
December 15-16. 




CHAPTER XXII. 

THE FIGHT ON THE RAILROAD NEAR MURFREESBORO, DECEMBER 

15, 1864. 

^N THE AFTERNOON OF DECEMBER 12th the regiment fell in and we 
marched to the railroad depot at Murfreesboro, climbed on a train of box 
cars, and started for Stevenson, Alabama, about 80 miles southeast of Mur¬ 
freesboro. The number of the regiment who participated in this movement, 
according to the official report of Maj. Nulton, was 150 men, and we were 
accompanied by a detachment of about forty of the 1st Michigan Engineers. 
(See Serial No. 93, Official Records of the War of the Rebellion, p. 620). 
We soon learnt that the train was going to Stevenson to obtain rations for 
the troops at Murfreesboro, and that our province was to serve as guards 
for the train, to Stevenson, and on its return. We had not gone more than 
eight or ten miles from Murfreesboro before we ran into the Confederate 
cavalry vedettes who were scattered along at numerous points of observa¬ 
tion near the railroad. However, on our approach they scurried away like 
quails. But, in many places the track had been torn up, and culverts de¬ 
stroyed, and when we came to one of these breaks, the train had to stop un¬ 
til our engineers could repair it, and then we went on. Right here I will say 
that those Michigan Engineers were splendid fellows. There was a flat car 
with our train, and on this car was a supply of extra rails, spikes, and other 
railroad appliances, with all the tools that the engineers used in their work, 
and it was remarkable to see how quick those men would repair a break in 
the road. They also were provided with muskets and accouterments the 
same as ordinary soldiers, and when the necessity arose, (as it did before we 
got back to Murfreesboro), they would drop .their sledges and crowbars, 
buckle on their cartridge boxes and grab their muskets, and fight like tigers. 
It was “all the same to Joe” with them. After getting about thirty-five 
miles from Murfreesboro we saw no more of the enemy, the railroad from 
thereon was intact, and we arrived at Stevenson about 10 o’clock on the 
morning of the loth. The train was loaded with rations and early on the 
morning of the 14th we started back to Murfreesboro, having in addition io 
me force with which we left there, a squad of about thirty dismounted men of 
the 12th Indiana Cavalry, who joined us at Stevenson. The grade up the 
eastern slope of the Cumberland mountains was steep, a drizzling rain had 
fallen the night before, making the rails wet and slippery, and the train had 
much difficulty in ascending the grade, and our progress was tedious and 
slow. This delay probably was the cause of our undoing, as will be re¬ 
vealed later. We didn’t get over the mountains until some time in the after¬ 
noon, and went along slowly, but all right; and about dark reached Bell 
Buckle, 32 miles from Murfreesboro. Here trouble began on a small scale. 

A Confederate cavalry vedette was on the alert, and fired at us the first shot 
of the night. The bullet went over us near where I was sitting on top of a 
car, with a sharp “ping,” that told it came from a rifle. But we went on pro¬ 
ceeding slowly and cautiously, for the night was pitch dark, and we were 

liable to find the railroad track destroyed at almost any place. At 2 o’clock 

in the morning, just after leaving Christiana, about 15 miles from Murfrees¬ 
boro, our troubles broke loose in good earnest. We encountered the Confed¬ 
erate cavalry in force, and also found the track in front badly torn up We 
got off the cars, formed in line on both sides of the road and slowly advanc¬ 
ed, halting whenever we came to a break in the road, until our Michigan 

Engineers could repair it. As above stated, they were bully boys, and un- 

138 


V 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER, 


139 


derstood their business thoroughly, and very soon would patch up the 
breaks so that the train could proceed. But it went only about as fast as 
a man could walk, and during the balance of that cold, dark night, we march¬ 
ed along by the side of the track, skirmishing with the enemy. On one occa¬ 
sion we ran right up against their line, they being on their horses, and evi¬ 
dently waiting our approach. Luckily for us, their guns must have been 
“wet, they nearly all missed fire, with no result save a lively snapping of caps 
along substantially their entire line. But our guns went off, and we gave the 
fellows a volley that, at least, waked up all the owls in the neighborhood. 

It was so intensely dark that accurate shooting was out of the question, and 
whether we hurt anybody or not I don’t know, but our foes galloped off in 
great haste, and disappeared for a while. Shortly before daylight, when we 
were within about six miles of Murfreesboro, we came to the worst break 
in the track we had yet encountered. It was at the end of a short cut in 
the road that was perhaps four or five feet deep. In front of this Cut the 
track was demolished for several rods, and a deep little culvert was also 
destroyed. We sat down on the ground near the track, and our engineers 
went to work. The situation was like this: In our front, towards Mur¬ 
freesboro, and on our right and left rear, were corn fields, with the stalks 
yet standing, and on our left front was a high rocky ridge, heavily timbered 
with a dense growth of small cedars, and which ridge sloped abruptly down to 
the railroad track. A small affluent of Stone river, with a belt of willow 
along its banks, flowed in a winding course along our right, in the general 
direction of Murfreesboro. While we were sitting here on the ground, half 
asleep, waiting for the engineers to call out “All right!”—there came a volley 
of musketry from the woods of the rocky ridge I have mentioned. We sprang 
to our feet, formed in the cut facing the ridge, and began returning the fire. 
After this had continued for some time, a party of the enemy moved to our 
rear, beyond gunshot, and began tearing up the track there, while another 
party took up a position on the opposite side of the little stream on our right, 
and opened fire on us from that direction. A portion of our force was shifted 
to the right of the train to meet the attack from this quarter, and the firing 
waxed hot and lively. Our engineers had seized their guns, and were blaz¬ 
ing away with the rest of us, and our bunch of dismounted cavalrymen 
were also busy with their carbines. This state of things continued for fully 
an hour, and I think some longer, when suddenly, coming irom our left rear, 
a cannon ball screamed over our heads, followed by the roar of the gun. 
The commanding officer of Co. D in this affair, (and the only officer of out* 
company present,) was Lieut. Wallace, and he was standing near me when 
the cannon ball went over us. “What’s that?” he exclaimed. “It means they 
have opened on us with artillery;” I answered. “Well,” he responded, “let 
’em bang away with their pop-guns!” and I think we all felt equally indif¬ 
ferent. We had become familiar with artillery and knew that at long range 
ii was not very dangerous. But the enemy’s cannon kept pounding away, 
and pretty soon a shot struck somewhere on the engine with a resounding 
crash. About this time Col. Grass gave the order to retreat. There was on¬ 
ly one way of escape open, and that was down the track towards Murfrees¬ 
boro. We hastily formed in two ranks, and started down the right side of 
the track in a double quick. As we passed out of the cut a body of dis¬ 
mounted cavalry came out of the woods on the ridge to our left and gave vs 
a volley of musketry. But being on higher ground than we were, they over¬ 
shot us badly, and did but little harm. We answered their fire, and uieir 
line halted. The command quickly went along our column to load and fire N 
as wf went, and “keep firing!” and we did so. We kept up a rattling, scat¬ 
tering fire on those fellows on our left which had the effect of standing them 
off, at any rate, and in the meantime we all did some of the fastest running 
down along the side of the railroad track that I have ever seen. Speaking 
for myself, I am satisfied that I never before surpassed it, and have never 
since equaled it. But we had all heard of Andersonville, and wanted no 
Confederate prison in ours. To add to our troubles, an irregular line of 



140 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


Confederate cavalry charged on us through the corn field in our rear, filing; 
and yelling at the top of their voices, “Halt! halt! you G— d— Yankee sons 

of -!—their remarks closing with an epithet concerning our maternal 

ancestors which, in the words of Colonel Carter of Cartersville, was “vehy 
gallin,’ suh.” But, as said by the French soldier, old Peter, in “The Chron¬ 
icles of the Drum,” 

“Cheer up! ’tis no use to be glum, boys,— 

’Tis written, since fighting begun, 

That sometimes we fight and we conquer, 

And sometimes we fight and we run.” 

Occasionally we would send a bullet back at these discourteous pursuers, and 
possibly on account of that, or maybe some other reason, they refrained 
from closing in on us. 

About half a mile from where we left the train the railroad crossed on 
a high trestle the little stream I have mentioned, which here turned to the 
left, and we had to ford it. It was only about knee-deep, but awful cold. The 
Confederates did not attempt to pursue us further after we crossed the 
creek, and from there we continued our retirement unmolested. I fired one 
shot soon after we forded the stream, and I have always claimed, and, in 
my opinion, rightfully, that it was the last shot fired in action by the regi¬ 
ment during the war. I will briefly state the circumstances connected with 
the incident. In crossing the creek, in some manner I tell oehind, which, 
it may be said, was no disgrace, as the rear, right then, was the place of 
danger. But, to be entirely frank about it, this action was not voluntary on 
my part, but because I was just about completely played out. Firing had 
now ceased, and I took my time, and soon was the tail-end man of what ,vas 
left of us. Presently tne creek made a bend to the right, and circled around 
a small elevated point of land on the opposite side, and on ^s little rise I 
saw a group of Confederate cavalrymen, four or five in number, seated on 
their horses, and •quietly looking at us. They maybe thought there was no 
fieht left in us, and that they could gaze on our retreat with impunity. They 
probably were officers, as they had no muskets or carbines, and were ap¬ 
parently wearing better clothes than private soldiers. I noted especially 
that they had on black coats, of which the tails came down to their saddle- 
skirts. They were in easy shooting distance, and my gun was loaded. I 
dropped on one knee behind a sapling, rested my gun against the left 
side of the tree, took aim at the center of the bunch, and puned the trigger. 
Fiz-z-z—ker-bang! roared old Trimthicket with a deafening explosion, and 
a kick that sent me a-sprawling on my back! There were two loads in my 
gun! My last preceding charge had missed fire, and in the excitement of 
the moment and the confusion and uproar around me, I had failed to notice 
it* and rammed home another load. But I regained my feet instantly, and 
eagerly looked to see the effect of my shot. Nobody was lying on the ground,, 
but that entire party was leaving the spot, in a gallop, with tneir heads bent 
forward and their coat tails flying behind them. Their curiosity was evi¬ 
dently satisfied. There is no mistake that I sent two .xets uirough the 
center of that squad, but whether they hit anybody or not I don’t know. 

At a point about a mile or so from where we left the train, we reached 
one of our railroad blockhouses, held by a small garrison. Here we halted, 
and reformed .As I came slowly trudging up to Co. D, Bill Banfield was 
talking to Lieut. Wallace, and said: “I guess Stillwell’s gone up. Haven’t 
seen him since we crossed that creek.” I stepped forward and in a brief 
remark, containing some language not fitting for a Sunday-school superin¬ 
tendent, informed Bill that he was laboring under a mistake. 

Soon after we arrived at the blockhouse a strong force of our troops, 
having marched out that morning from Murfreesboro, also appeared on the 
ground. Gen. Rousseau had learnt that we were ’ attacked, and had sent 
these troops to our relief, but they were too late. He had also sent a de¬ 
tachment to this point the evening before, to meet us, but on account of our 
being delayed, as before stated, we did not appear, so this party, after wait¬ 
ing till some time after sunset, marched back to Murfreesooro. 



THE STORY OE A COMMON SOLDIER. 141 


In this affair we lost, in killed, wounded, and prisoners, about half the 
regiment, including Col. Grass, who was captured. He was a heavy-set man, 
somewhat fleshy, and at this time a little over forty years old. He became 
completely exhausted on our retreat, (being on foot), tumbled over, and the 
Confederates got him. Many years later, when we were both living in Kan¬ 
sas, I had an interesting conversation wuh him about this affair. He told 
me that his sole reason for ordering the retreat was that he had ascertained 
shortly before the artillery opened on us, that our cartridges were almost 
exhausted. Then, when our assailants brought their artillery into play, he 
realized, he said, that the train was doomed, that it would soon be knocked 
to pieces, and also set on fire by the balls and shells of the enemy, and 
that we were powerless to prevent it. Under these circumstances he deemed 
it his duty to give up the train, and save his men, if possible. Col. Grass was 
a good and brave man, and I have no doubt that he acted in this matter ac¬ 
cording to his sincere convictions of duty. 

The Confederate commander in this action was Gen. L. S. Ross of 
Texas, who, after the war, served two terms as governor of that State. All 
his men were Texans, (with the possible exception of the artillery), and, 
according to the official reports, were more than three times our number. I 
think it is permissible to here quote a small portion of the official report 
made by Gen. Ross of this engagement, as found on page 771, Serial No. 
93, Official Records of the War of the Rebellion. Speaking of our defense 
of the train, he says: 

“The men guarding it fought desperately for over an hour, having a 
strong position in a cut of the railroad, but were finally routed by a most 
gallant charge of the Sixth Texas, supported by the Third i exas.” 

While the tribute thus paid by Gen. Ross to the manner of our defense is 
appreciated, nevertheless I will say that he is absolutely wrong in saying 

that we were “routed” by the charge he mentions. We retreated simply 

and solely in obedience to the orders of Col. Grass, our commander, and 

neither the Sixth Texas, nor the Third Texas, had a thing to do in bringing 

that about. I don’t deny that they followed us pretty closely after we got 
started. 

I will now resume the account of what occurred after we reached the 
blockhouse. It will be brief. We formed in line with the reinforcements 
that had come from Murfreesboro, and advanced toward the train. We en¬ 
countered no opposition; the enemy had set fire to the cars, and then had 
hastily and entirely disappeared. 

I have recently discovered in a modern edition of the Reports of the 
Adjutant-General of Illinois, (the date on the title page being 1901), that 
in the revised sketch of our regiment a recital has crept in stating that in our 
subsequent advance we “recaptured the train in time to prevent its destruc¬ 
tion.” How that statement got into the sketch I do not know, and I am sor¬ 
ry to be under the necessity of saying that it is not true. When we got back 
to the scene of the fight the train was a mass of roaring flame, the resulting 
consequence being that every car was finally consumed. No matter how 
much it may hurt, it is always best to be fair, and tell the truth. 

In the course of the day our troops all returned to Murfreesboro. Maj. 
Nulton, who was now our regimental commander, gave us of the 61st per¬ 
mission to march back “at will.” That is, we could start when we got ready, 
singly or in squads, and not in regimental formation. So Bill Banfield and 
I started out to get something to eat, as we were very hungry. Since leav¬ 
ing Stevenson on the morning of the 14th, we had had no opportunity to cook 
anything, and had eaten nothing but some hardtack and raw bacon. Then 
that night we had left our haversacks on top of the cars when we got off the 
train to skirmish with the enemy, and never saw them again. And this was 
a special grievance for Bill and me. We each had a little money, and on 
the morning we left Stevenson had gone to a sutler’s, and made some pur¬ 
chases to insure us an extra good meal when we got back to Murfreesboro. 
I bought a little can of condensed milk, (having always had a weakness for 


142 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 

) 

milk in coffee), while Bill, with a kind of queer taste, invested in a can of 
lobsters. One time that night, while sitting on the ground, in the cold and 
dark, tired, hungry, and sleepy, waiting while our engineers patched a break 
in the railroad, Bill, with a view, I reckon, of cheering us Dotn up, delivered 
himself in this wise: “This is a little tough, Stillwell, but just think of that 
bully dinner we’ll have when we get to Murfreesboro! You’ve your can of 
condensed milk, and I’ve mine of lobsters; we’ll have coffee with milk in it, 
and then, with some hardtack, we’ll have a spread that will make up for this 
all right.” But, alas! 

“The best laid schemes o’ mice and men, 

Gang aft a-gley.” 

My precious condensed milk, and the crustaceans aforesaid of Bill’s, doubt¬ 
less went glimmering down the alimentary canal of some long-haired Texan, 
to his great satisfaction. My wish at the time was that the darned lobsters 
might make the fellow sick,—which they probably did. So Bill and I were 
now at the burning train, looking for something to take the place of our 
captured Belshazzar banquet. We found a car that was loaded with pickled 
pork in barrels, and getting a fence rail, we finally succeeded, after some 
peril and much difficulty, in prying off one of the barrels, and it fell to the 
ground, bursting open as it did so, and scattering the blazing pieces of pork 
all around. We each got a portion, and then sat down on a big rock, and 
proceeded to devour our respective chunks without further ceremony. The 
outside of the meat was burned to a coal, but we were hungry, all of it 
tasted mighty sweet, and we gnawed it just like dogs. At the close of the 
repast, I took a look at Bill. His face was as black as tar from contact with 
the burnt pork, and in other respects his “tout ensemble” “left much to be 
desired.” I thought if I looked as depraved as Bill certainly did it would 
be advisable to avoid any pocket looking-glass until after a thorough facial 
ablution with soft water and plenty of soap. Dinner over, we were soon 
ready for the march to camp, (there being no dishes to wash), and started 
down the railroad track for Murfreesboro. We took our time, and didn’t 
reach camp till about sundown. We were the last arrivals of Co. D, and, as 
there were all sorts of rumors afloat, we afterwards learnt that Capt. Keeley 
had become quite anxious about us. As we' turned down our company 
street I saw the Captain standing in front of his tent, looking in our di¬ 
rection. After the affairs of the 4th and the 7th, I had taken much satis¬ 
faction, in speaking to him of those events, in adopting the phraseology of 
the old Chaplain, and had expressed myself several times in language like 
this: “And we smote them, hip and thigh, even as Joash smote Boheel!” - 
But it was now necessary to amend my boastful statement, so as I approach¬ 
ed Capt. Keeley, and before anything else had been spoken, I made to him 
this announcement: “And they smote us, hip and thigh, even as Joash smote 
Boheel!” Keeley laughed, but it was a rather dry laugh, and he answered: 
“Well, I’m glad they didn’t smite you boys, anyhow,—but, great God! go wash 
your faces, and clean up generally. You both look like the very devil him¬ 
self.” We passed on, complied with the Captain’s directions, and then I 
curled up in my dog tent and slept without a break until next morning. 

In concluding my account of this affair it will be stated that the most 
of our boys who were captured in the fight, and, (I think), all the line of¬ 
ficers who had the same bad luck, made their escape, singly, or in little 
parties, not long thereafter. Their Confederate captors, on or about the day 
after our encounter, had hurriedly joined the army of Gen. Hood, taking 
their prisoners with them. .In their retreat from Tennessee on «this occa¬ 
sion, the Confederates had a hard and perilous time. The guards of the 
captured Yankees were probably well-nigh worn out, and it is likely that, 
on account of their crushing defeat at Nashville, they had also become dis¬ 
couraged and careless. Anyhow, the most of our fellows got away while 
Hood was yet on the north side of the Tennessee river. He crossed that 
stream with the wreck of his army on the 216th and 27th of December, and 
fell back into Mississippi. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


MURFREESBORO.—WINTER OF 1864-1865.—FRANKLIN.—SPRING AND 

SUMMMER OF 1865. 

After THE RETREAT OF HOOD FROM NASHVILLE, matters became 
““ very quiet and uneventful with us at Murfreesboro. The regiment 
shifted its camp from the inside of Fortress Roisecrans out into open ground 
on the outskirts of the town, and proceeded to build winter quarters. These 
consisted of log cabins, like those we built at Little Rock the previous win¬ 
ter, only now the logs were cedar instead of pine. There were extensive 
cedar forests in the 'immediate vicinity of Murfreesboro, and we had no dif¬ 
ficulty whatever in getting the material. And we had plenty of nice, 
fragrant cedar wood to burn in our fire-places, which was much better than 
soggy Arkansas pine. And I remember with pleasure a matter connected 
with the rations we had in the fore part of the winter. For some reason or 
(other the supply of hardtack became practically exhausted, and we had 
but little in the line of flour bread, even for some weeks after Hood re¬ 
treated from Nashville. But in the country noirth of Murfreesboro was 
an abundance of corn, and there were plenty of water-mills, so Gen. 
Rousseau sent out foraging parties in that region and appropriated the 
corn, and set the mills to grinding it, and, O, what fine cornbread we had! 
We used to make “ash-cakes” and they were splendid. The method of 
making and cooking an ash-cake was to mix a quantity of meal with 
proper proportions of water, grease, and salt, wrap the meal dough in some 
dampened paper, or a clean, wet cloth, then put it in the fire and cover it 
with hot ashes and coals. By- testing with a sharp stick we could tell when 
the cake was done, then we would yank it from the fire, scrape off the frag¬ 
ments of the covering and the adhering ashes,—and then, with bacon 
toasted on the cedar coals, and plenty of good strong coffee, we would have 
a dinner better than any, (from my standpoint,) that Delmonico’s ever 
served up in its palmiest days. 

On Feb. 4th, 1865, the non-veterans and recruits of the regiment came 
to us from Arkansas, and so we were once more all together, except a few 
that were in Confederate prisons down South. We were all glad to see 
each other once more, and had many tales to “swap,” about our respective 
experiences during our separation. 

On Feb. 10, Lieutenant Wallace resigned, and returned to his home in 
Illinois. The chief reason for his resignation was on account of some pri¬ 
vate matter at home, which was giving him much anxiety and trouble. 
Further, the war in the region where we were was practically over, and 
there was nothing doing, With no prospect,, so far as we knew, of any mili¬ 
tary activity for the regiment in the future. Wallace’s resignation left Co. 
D without a second lieutenant, as we then did not haye enough enlisted 
men in the. company to entitle us to a full complement of commissioned of¬ 
ficers, and the place remained vacant for some months. 

On March 21st, we left Murfreesboro by rail and went to Nashville, and 
thence to Franklin, about twenty miles south of Nashville, and on what 
was then called the Nashville and Decatur railroad. A desperate and bloody 
battle occurred here between our forces under the command of Gen. Scho¬ 
field, and the Confederates under Gen. Hood, on November 30th, only two 
days after our arrival at Murfreesboro. I have often wondered why it was 


144 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


that Gen. Thomas, our department commander, did not send our regiment, 
on our arrival at Nashville, to reinforce Schofield, instead of to Murfrees¬ 
boro, for Gen. Schofield certainly needed all the help he could get. But it 
is probable that Gen. Thomas had some good reason for his action. 

When we arrived at Franklin we relieved the regiment that was on 
duty there las a garrison, and it went somewhere else. It was the 75th 
Pennsylvania, and cue officers and men composing; it, so far as I saw, were 
all Germans. And they were fine soldierly looking fellows, too. From this 
time until we left Franklin in the following September, our regiment com¬ 
prised all the Union force that was stationed at the town. Maj. Nulton was 
in command of the post, and, subject only to higher authorities at a dis¬ 
tance, we were “monarchs of all we surveyed.” When we came to Frank¬ 
lin the signs of the battle or November 30th were yet fresh and plentiful. As 
soon as time and opportunity afforded, I walked over the whole field, (in 
fact, several times), looking with deep interest at all the evidences of 
the battle. I remember especially the appearance of a scattered grove of 
young locust trees which stood at a point opposite the right center of the 
Union line. For some hours the grove was right between the fire of both 
the Union and the Confederate lines, and ihe manner in which the trees had 
been riddled with musket balls was truly remarkable. It looked as if a snow 
bird could not have lived in that grove while the firing was in progress. 

General William a. Quarles, of Tennessee, was one of the Confederate 
generals who were wounded in this battle, and after incurring his wound was 
taken to the house of a Tennessee planter. Col. McGavock, about a mile from 
Franklin, near the Harpeth river. Two or three other wounded Confederate 
officers of less rank were taken to the same place. When the Confederates 
retreated from Nashville, Gen. Quarles and these other wounded officers 
were unable to accompany the army, they remained at McGavock’s, and 
were taken prisoners by our forces. They were put under a sort of parole 
of honor, and allowed to remain where they were, without being guarded. 
They had substantially recovered from their wounds at the time our regi¬ 
ment arrived at Franklin, and not long thereafter Capt. Keeley came to me 
one day, and handed me an order from Maj. Nulton, which directed me to 
take a detail of four men, with two ambulances, and go to McGavock’s and 
get Gen. Quarles and the other Confederate officers who were there, and 
bring them into Franklin, for the purpose of being sent to Nashville, and 
thence to the north to some military prison. I thereupon detailed Bill Ban- 
field and three other boys, told them what our business was, and instructed 
them to brush up nicely, and have their arms and accouterments in first- 
class condition, and, in general, to be looking their best. Having obtained 
the ambulances, with drivers, we climbed aboard ,and soon arrived at the 
fine residence of old Col. McGavock. I went into the house, met the lady 
of the establishment, and inquired of her for Gen. Quarles, and was in¬ 
formed that he was in an upper room. I requested the lady to give the 
general my compliments, and tell him that I desired to see him. She dis¬ 
appeared, and soon the general walked into the room where I was await¬ 
ing him. He was a man slightly below medium stature, heavy set, black 
'hair, piercing black eyes, and looked to be about thirty years old. He was 
a splendid looking soldier. I stepped forward and saluted him, and briefly 
and courteously told him my business. “All right, sergeant,” he answered, 
“we’ll be ready in a few minutes.” Their preparations were soon completed, 
and we left the house. I assigned the general and one of the other officers 
to a seat near the front in one of the ambulances, and Bill Banfield and I 
occupied the seat behind them, and the remaining guards and prisoners 
rode in the other conveyance. There was only one remark made on the en¬ 
tire trip back to Franklin, and I’ll mention it presently. We emerged from 
the woods into the Columbia pike at a point about three-quarters of a mile 
in front of our main line of works that had been charged repeatedly and 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


145 


desperately, by the Confederates in the late battle. The ground sloped 
gently down towards tne works, and for fully half a mile was as level as 
a house floor. I noticed that at the moment we reached the pike Gen. 
Quarles began to take an intense interest in the surroundings. He would 
lean forward, and look to the right, to the front, to the left, and occasionally 
throw a hasty glance backward,—but said nothing. Finally wb passed 
through our works, near the historic “cotton-gin” and the general drew 
a deep breath, leaned back against his seat, and said: “Wsll, by God, the 
next time I fight at Franklin, I want to let the Col unbia pike severel' 
alone!” No one made any response, and the remainder of the journey was 
finished in silence. 1 duly delivered Gen. Quarles and his fellow-prisoners 
to Maj. Nulton, and never saw any of them again. 

Early in April, decisive military operations rook place in Virginia. On 
the 3rd of that month our forces marched into Richmond, and on the 9tli the 
army of Gen. Lee surrendered to Gen. Grant. At Franklin we were on a 
telegraph line, and only about twenty miles from department headquarters, 
so the intelligence of those events was not long in reaching us. I am just 
unable to tell how profoundly gratified we were to hear of the capture of 
Richmond, and of Lee’s army . We were satisfied that those victories meant 
the speedy and triumphant end of the war. It had been a long, desperate, 
and bloody struggle, and frequently the final result looked doubtful and 
gloomy. But now,—“there were signs in the sky that the darkness was 
gone; there were tokens in endless array”; and the feeling among the 
common soldiers was one of heart-felt relief and satisfaction. But suddenly 
our joy was turned into the most distressing grief and mourning. Only a 
few days after we heard of Lee’s surrender came the awful tidings of the 
foul murder of Mr. Lincoln. I well remember the manner of the men when 
the intelligence of the dastardly crime was flashed to us at Franklin. They 
seemed dazed and stunned, and were reluctant to believe it, until the fact 
was confirmed beyond question. They sat around in camp under the trees, 
talking low, and saying but little, as if the matter were one tnat made mere 
words utterly useless. But they were in a desperate frame of mind, and 
had there been the least appearance of exultation over the murder of Mr. 
Lincoln by any of the people of Franklin, the place would have been laid 
in ashes instanter. But the citizens seemed to understand the situation. 
They went into their houses, and closed their doors, and the town looked 
as if deserted. To one who had been among the soldiers for 
some years, it was easy to comprehend and understand their feelings on 
this occasion. For the last two years of the war especially, the men had 
come to regard Mr. Lincoln with sentiments of veneration and love. To 
them he really was “Father Abraham”, with all that the term implied. And 
this regard was also entertained by men of high rank in the army. Gen. 
Sherman, in speaking of Mr. Lincoln, says this: 

“Of all the men I ever met, he seemed to possess more of the elements 
01 greatness, combined with goodness, than any other”. (Memoirs of Gen. 
W. T. Sherman, revised edition, Vol. 2, p. 328.) 

For my part, I have been of the opinion, for many years, that Abraham 
Lincoln was the greatest man the world has ever known. 

In the latter part of June the recruits of the 83rd, the 98th, and the 
123rd Illinois Infantry were transferred to the 61ist, making the old regiment 
about nine hundred strong. Co. D received forty^six of the transferred men, 
all of these being from the 83rd Illinois. And they were a fine set of boys, 
too. Their homes were, in the main, in northwestern Illinois, in the coun¬ 
ties of Mercer, Rock Island, and Warren. They all had received a good 
common school education, were intelligent, and prompt and cheerful in the 
discharge of their duties. They were good soldiers ,in every sense of the 


146 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


word. It is a little singular that, since the muster-out of the regiment in the 
following September I have never met a single one of these boys. 

The ranks of the regiment now being filled nearly to the maximum, the 
most of the vacancies that existed in the line of commissioned officers were 
filled just as promptly as circumstances would permit. Lieut. Col. Grass had 
been discharged on May 15th, 1865, and Maj. Nulton, who was now our rank¬ 
ing field officer, was, on July 11th, promoted to the position of Colonel. He 
was the first, and only, colonel the regiment ever had. The vacancy in the 
lieutenant-colonelcy of the regiment was never filled, for what reason I 
do not know. Capt. Keeley was promoted Major, and first Lieutenant War¬ 
ren to Captain of Co. D in Keeley’s stead. And thus it came to pass that 
on July 11th, I received a commission as Second Lieutenant of our company, 
and on August 21st was promoted to first lieutenant. Soon after receiving 
my commission, Capt. Warren was detailed on some special duty which 
took him away from Franklin for some weeks, and consequently during his 
absence I was the commanding officer of Co. D. So far as ever came to 
my knowledge, I got along all right, and very pleasantly. It is a fact, at 
any rate, that I presented a more respectable appearance than that which 
was displayed during the brief time I held the position at Austin, Arkansas, 
in May, 1864. __ 





/ 


* 





CHAPTER XXIV. 


THE SOLDIER’S PAY; RATIONS; ALLUSIONS TO SOME OF THE USE¬ 
FUL LESSONS LEARNED BY SERVICE IN THE ARMY 
IN TIME OF WAR; COURAGE IN BATTLE. 

C [f 1 HIS STORY IS NOW DRAWING TO A CLOSE, so I will here speak 
" of some things of a general nature, and which have not been heretofore 
mentioned, except perhaps casually. 

One important feature in the life of a soldier was the matter of his 
pay, and a few words on that subject may not be out of place. When I 
enlisted in January, 1862, the monthly pay of the enlisted men of a regi¬ 
ment of infantry was as follows: First sergeant, $20; duty sergeants, $17; 
corporals and privates, $13. By act of Congress of May 1st, 1864, the 
monthly pay of the enlisted men was increased, and from that date was 
as follows: First sergeant, $24; duty sergeants, $20; corporals, $18; pri¬ 
vates, $16. That rate existed as long, at least, as we remained in the ser¬ 
vice. The first payment made to our regiment was on May 1st, 1862, while 
we were in camp at Owl Creek, Tennessee. The amount I received was 
$49.40, and of this I sent $45 home to my father at the first opportunity. 
For a poor man, he was heavily in debt at the time of my enlistment, and 
was left without any boys to help him do the work upon the farm, so I re¬ 
garded it as my duty to send him every dollar of my pay that possibly 
could be spared, and did so as long as I was in the service . Bu, he finally 
got but of debt during the war. He had good crops, and all manner of 
farm products brouguc high prices, so the war period was financially a pros¬ 
perous one for him. And, to be fair about it, I will say that he later re¬ 
paid me, when I was pursuing my law studies at the Albany, New York, 
Law School, almost all the money I had sent him while in the army. So the 
result really was that the money received by me, as a soldier, was what 
later enabled me to qualify as a lawyer.- 

I have heretofore said in these reminiscences that the great “stand- 
bys” in the way of the food of the soldiers of the western armies, were 
coffee, sowbelly, yankee beans, and hardtack . But other articles of diet 
were also issued to us, some of which we liked, while others were flat 
failures. I have previously said something about the antipathy I had for 
rice. The French. General Baron Gourgaud in his “Talks of Napoleon at 
St. Helena,” (p. 240) records Napoleon as having said; “Rice is the best 
food for the soldier.” Napoleon, in my opinion, was the greatest soldier 
that mankind has ever produced,—but all the same, I emphatically dissent 
from his rice proposition. His remark may have been correct when applied 
to European soldiers of his time and place,—but I know it wouldn’t fit 
western American boys of 1861-65. 

There were a few occasions when an article of diet was issued called 
“dessicated potatoes.” For “dessicated” the boys promptly substituted 
“desecrated,” and “desecrated potatoes” was its name among the rank and 
file from start to finish. It consisted of Irish potatoes, cut up fine, and 
thoroughly dried. In appearance it much resembled the modern prepara¬ 
tion called “grape nuts”. We would mix it in water, grease, and salt, and 
make it up into little cakes, which we would fry, and they were first rate. 
There was a while, when we were at Bolivar, Tennessee, that some stuff 
called “compressed vegetables” was issued to us, which the boys, almost 


148 


THE STOEY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


unanimously, considered an awful fraud. It was composed of all sorts 
of vegetables, pressed into small bales, in a solid mass, and as dry as 
threshed straw. The conglomeration contained turnip-tops, cabbage leaves, 
string-beans, (pod and all), onion blades, and possibly some of every other 
kind of a vegetable that ever grew in a garden. It came to the army in 
small boxes, about the size of the Chinese tea-boxes that were frequently 
seen in this country about fifty years ago. In the process of cooking, it 
would swell up prodigiously,—a great deal more so than rice. The Ger¬ 
mans in the regiment would make big dishes of soup out of this “baled hay”, 
as we called it, and they liked it, but the native Americans, after one trial, 
wouldn’t touch it. I think about the last box of it that was issued to our 
company was pitched into a ditch in the rear of the camp, and it soon got 
thoroughly soaked and loomed up about as big as a fair-sized hay¬ 
cock. “Split-peas” were issued to us, more or less, during all the time we 
were in the service. My understanding was that they were the ordinary 
garden peas. They were split in two, dried, and about as hard as gravel. 
But they yielded to cooking, made excellent food, and we were all fond 
of them. In our opinion, when properly cooked, they were almost as good 
as yankee beans. 

When our forces captured Little Rock in September, 1863, we obtained 
possession, among other plunder, of quite a quantity of Confederate com¬ 
missary stores. Among these was a copious supply of “jerked beef”. It 
consisted of narrow, thin strips of beef, which had been dried on scaffolds 
in the sun, and it is no exaggeration to say that it was almost as hard and 
dry as a cottonwood chip. Our manner of eating it was simply to cut off 
a chunk about as big as one of our elongated musket balls, and proceed to 
“chaw”. It was rather a comical sight to see us in our cabins of a cold 
winter night, sitting by the fire, and all solemnly “chawing” away, in pro¬ 
found silence, on the Johnnies’ jerked beef. But, if sufficiently masticated, 
it was nutritious and healthful, and we all liked it. I often thought it 

would have been a good thing if the government had made this kind of 

beef a permanent and regular addition to our rations. As long as kept in 

the dry, it would apparently keep indefinitely, and a piece big enough to 

last a soldier two or three days would take up but little space in a haver¬ 
sack. 

Passing from the topic of army rations, I will now take leave to say 
here, with sincerity and emphasis, that the best school to fit me for the 
practical affairs of life that I ever attended, was in the old 61st Illinois dur¬ 
ing the Civil War. It would be too long a story to undertake to tell all 
the benefits derived from that experience, but a few will be alluded to. In 
the first place, when I was a boy at home, I was, to some extent, a “spoiled 
child”. I was exceedingly particular and “finicky” about my food. Fat meat 
I abhorred, and wouldn’t touch it, and on the other hand, when we had 
chicken to eat, the gizzard was claimed by me as my sole and exclusive 
tid-bit, and “Leander” always, got it. Let it be known that in the regi¬ 
ment those habits were gotten over so soon that I was astonished myself. 
The army in time of war is no place for a “sissy-boy”; it will make a man 
of him quicker, in my opinion, than any other sort of experience he could 
undergo. And suffice it to say, on the food question, that my life as a 
soldier forever cured me of being fastidious or fault-finding about wnat I 
had to eat. I had gone hungry too many times to give way to such weakness 
when sitting down in a comfortable room to a table provided with plenty 
that was good enough for any reasonable man. I have no patienc? with 
a person who is addicted to complaining or growling about his food. Some 
years ago ‘here was an occasion when I took breakfast at a decent little 
hotel at a country way-station on a railroad out in Kansas. It was an early 
breakfast, for the accomodation of guests who had to leave on an early 
morning train, and there were only two at the table,—a young traveling com- 


149 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 

mercial man, and myself. The drummer ordered, (with other things,) a 
couple of fried eggs, and that fellow sent the poor little dining room girl 
back with those eggs three times before he got them fitted to the exact 
shade of taste to suit his exquisite palate. And he did this, too, in a man¬ 
ner and words that were offensive, and almost brutal. It was none of my 
business, so I kept my mouth shut, and said nothing, but I would have giv¬ 
en a ‘‘dignified sum” to have been the proprietor of that hotel about five 
minutes. That fool would then have been ordered to get his grip, and 
leave the house,—and he would have left, too. 

I do not know how it may have been with other regiments in the mat¬ 
ter now to be mentioned, but I presume it was substantially the same. But 
the course pursued with us had a direct tendency to make one indifferent 
as to the precise cut of his clothes. It is true that attention was paid to 
shoes, to that extent, at least, that the quartermaster tried to give each 
man a pair that approximated to the number he wore. But coats, trousers, 
and the other clothes, were piled up in separate heaps, and each man was 
just thrown the first garment on the top of the heap; he took it, and walked 
away. If it was an outrageous fit, he would swap with some one if possible, 
otherwise he got along as best he could. Now, in civil life, I have frequently 
been amused in noting some dudish young fellow in a little country store 
trying to fit himself out with a light summer coat, or something similar. He 
would put on the garment, stand in front of a big looking glass, twist him¬ 
self into all sorts of shapes so as to get a view from every possible angle, 
then remove that one, and call for another. Finally, after trying on about 
every coat in the house, he would leave without making a purchase, hav¬ 
ing found nothing that suited the exact contour of his delicately moulded 
form. A few months experience in a regiment that had a gruff old quarter¬ 
master would take that tuck out of that Beau Brummell, in short order. 

Sometimes I have been, at a late hour on a stormy night, at a way- 
station on some “jerk-water” railroad, waiting for a belated train, with 
others in the same predicament. And it was comical to note the irritation 
of some of these fellows and the fuss they made, about the train being 
late. The railroad, and all the officers, would be condemned and abused in 
the most savage terms on account of this little delay. And jet we were in 
a warm room, with benches to sit on, with full stomachs, and physically 
just as comfortable as we possibly could be. The thought would always 
occur to me, on such episodes, that if those kickers had to sit down in a 
dirt road, in the mud, with a cold rain pelting down on them, and just en¬ 
dure all this until a broken bridge in front was fixed up so that the artillery 
and wagon train could get along,—then a few incidents of that kind would 
be a benefit to them. And instances like the foregoing might be multiplied 
indefinitely. On the whole, life in the army in a time of war, tended to de¬ 
velop patience, contentment with the surroundings, and equanimity of 
temper and mind in general. And, from the highest to the lowest, differ¬ 
ing only in degree, it would bring out energy, prompt decision, intelligent 
action, and all the latent force of character a man possessed. 

I suppose in reminiscences of this nature, one should give his impres¬ 
sions, or views, in relation to that much talked about subject,—“Courage 
in battle”. Now, in wnat I have to say on that head, I can speak advisedly 
mainly for myself only. I think that the principal thing that held me to 
the work was simply pride; and am of the opinion that it was the same 
thing with most of the common soldiers. A prominent American function¬ 
ary some years ago said something about our people being “too proud to 
fight”. With the soldiers of the Civil War it was. exactly the reverse,— 
they were “too proud to run”;—unless it was manifest that the situation 
was hopeless, and that for the time being, nothing else could be done. 
And, in the latter case, when the whole line goes back, there is no personal 
odium attaching to any one individual; they are all in the same boat. The 


150 THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


idea of the influence of pride is well illustrated by an old-time war story, 
as follows: A soldier on the firing line happened to notice a terribly af¬ 
frighted rabbit running to the rear at the top of its speed. “Go it, cotton¬ 
tail”! yelled the soldier. “I’d run too, if I had no more reputation to lose 
than you have!” 

It is true that in tne first stages of the war the fighting qualities of 
American soldiers did not appear in altogether a favorable light. But at 
that time the fact is tnat the volunteer armies on both sides were not much 
better than mere armed mobs, and without discipline, or cohesion. But 
those conditions didn’t last long,—and there was never but one Bull Run. 

Enoch Wallace was home on recruiting service some weeks in the fall 
of 1862, and when he rejoined the regiment he told me something my father 
said in a conversation that occurred between the two . They were talking 
about the war, battles, and topics of that sort, and in the course of their 
talk Enoch told me that my father said that while he hoped his boy would 
come through the war all right, yet he would rather “Leander should be 
killed dead, while standing up and fighting like a man, than that he should 
run, and disgrace the family”. . I have no thought from the nature of the 
conversation as told to me by Enoch that my father made this remark with 
any intention of its being repeated to me, it was sudden and spontaneous,, 
and just the way the old backwoodsman felt. But I never forgot it, and it 
helped me several times. For, to be perfectly frank about it, and tell the 
plain truth, I will set it down here that, so far as I was concerned, away 
down in the bottom of my heart I just secretly dreaded a battle. But we 
were soldiers, and it was our business to fight when the time came, so the 
only thing to then do was to summon up our pride and resolution, and face 
the ordeal with all the fortitude we would command. And while I admit the 
existence of this feeling of dread before the fight, yet it is also true that 
when it was on, and one was in the thick of it, with the smell of gunpowder 
permeating his whole system, then a signal change comes over a man. He is 
seized with a furious desire to kill. There are his foes, right in plain view, 
give it to ’em, d— em!—and for the time being he becomes almost obliv¬ 
ious to the sense of danger. 

And while it was only human nature to dread a battle,—and I think 
it would be mere affectation to deny it, yet I also know that we common 
soldiers strongly felt that when fighting did break loose Close at hand, or 
within the general scope of our operations, then we ought to be in, it, with 
the others, and doing our part. That was what we were there for, and 
somehow a soldier didn’t feel just right for fighting to be going on all 
round him, or in his vicinity, and he doing nothing but lying back some¬ 
where, eating government rations. 

But, all things considered, the best definition of true courage I have 
ever read is that given by Gen. Sherman in his Memoirs, as follows: 

“I would define true courage,” (he says,) “to be a perfect sensibility 
of the measure of danger, and a mental willingness to endure it.” (Sher¬ 
man’s Memoirs, revised edition, Vol. 2, p. 395.) But, I will further say, in 
this connection, that/ in my opinion, much depends, sometimes, especially 
at a critical moment, on the commander of the men who is right on the 
ground, or close at hand. This is shown by the result attaine 1 by Gen. Mil- 
roy in the incident I have previously mentioned. And, on a larger scale, the 
inspiring conduct of Gen. Sheridan at the battle of Cedar Creek, Virginia, 
is probably the most striking example in modern history of what a brave and 
resolute leader of men can accomplish under circumstances when apparent¬ 
ly all is lost. And, on the other hand, I think there is no doubt that the. 
battle of Wilson’s Creek, Missouri, on August 10, 1861, was a Union victory 
up to the time of the death of Gen. Lyon, and would have remained such if 
the officer who succeeded Lyon had possessed the nerve of his fallen chief. 
But he didn’t, and so he marched our troops off the field, retreated from a 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 151 


beaten enemy, and hence Wilson’s Creek figures in history as a Confederate 
victory. (See “The Lyon Campaign,” by Eugene F. Ware, pp. 324-339.) I 
have read somewhere this saying: “An army of deer commanded by a lion, 
is better than an army of lions commanded by a deer.” While that state¬ 
ment cannot be literally granted, it is, however, a strong epigrammatic ex¬ 
pression of the fact that the commander of soldiers in battle should be, 
above all other things, a forcible, determined, and brave man. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


FRANKLIN, SUMMER OF 1865.—MUSTERED OUT, SEPTEMBER 8, 1865. 
—RECEIVE FINAL PAYMENT AT SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS, SEP¬ 
TEMBER 27, 1865.—THE REGIMENT “BREAKS 
RANKS” FOREVER. 

S OLDIERING AT FRANKLIN, TENNESSEE, in May, June, July, and 
August, 1865, was simply of a picnic kind. The war was over in that 
region, and everything there was as quiet and peaceful as it was at home 
in Illinois. Picket guards were dispensed with, and the only guard duty 
required was a small detail for the colors, at regimental headquarters, and 
a similar one over our commissary stores . However, it was deemed neces¬ 
sary for the health of the men to maintain company drills to a certain ex¬ 
tent, but they were light and easy. Near the camp was a fine blue-grass 
pasture field, containing in a scattered, irregular form, numerous large and 
magnificent hard maples, and the drilling was done in this field. Capt. War¬ 
ren was somewhat portly, and not fond of strenuous exercise anyhow, so all 
the drilling Co. D had at Franklin was conducted by myself. But I rather 
liked it. With the accession of those 83rd Illinois men, the old company 
was about as big and strong as it was at Camp Carrollton, and it looked fine. 
But to tell the truth it is highly probable that we put in fully as much time 
lying On the blue grass under the shade of those grand old maples, as we 
did in company evolutions. 

Sometime during the course of the summer a middle aged widow lady 
named House began conducting a sort of private boarding establishment at 
her residence in the city, and Col. Nulton, Maj. Keeley, and several of the 
line officers, including myself, took meals at this place during the re¬ 
mainder of our stay at Franklin. Among the boarders were two or three 
gentlemen also of the name of House, and who were brothers-in-law of our 
hostess. They had all served in Forrest’s cavalry as commissioned officers, 
and were courteous and elegant gentlemen. We 'yvould all sit down together 
at the table of Mrs. House, witji that lady at the head, and talk land laugh, 
and joke with each other, as if we had been comrades and friends all our 
lives. And yet, during the four years just preceding, the Union and the 
Confederate soldiers thus mingled together in friendship and amity, had 
been doing their very best to kill one another! But in our conversation we 
carefully avoided anything in the nature of political 'discussion about the 
war, and in general, each side refrained from saying anything on that sub¬ 
ject which might grate on the feelings of the other. 

On September 4th, 1865, the regiment left Franklin and went by rail 
to Nashville for the purpose of being mustered out of the service. There 
were some unavoidable delays connected with the business, and it was not 
officially consummated until September 8th. In the forenoon of the follow¬ 
ing day we left Nashville on the cars, on the Louisville and Nashville rail¬ 
road, for Springfield, Illinois, where we were to receive our final payment 
and certificates of discharge. 

Early on Sunday morning, September 10th, we crossed the Ohio river 
at Louisville, Kentucky, on a ferry boat, to Jeffersonville, Indiana. This 
boat was provided with a railroad track extending from bow to stern, which 
connected with the main tracks on both sides of the river. It transferred 
our train in sections, and thus obviated any necessity for the men to leave 
the cars. The ferrying process did not take long, and we were soon speed¬ 
ing through southern Indiana. As stated, it was Sunday, and a bright, beau¬ 
tiful. autumn day. As I have hereinbefore mentioned, our train consist¬ 
ed of box cars, (except one coach for the commissioned officers,) and all 
the men who could find room, had taken, from preference, seats on top of 
the cars. Much of southern Indiana is rugged and broken, and in 1865 was 
wild, heavily timbered, and the most of the farm houses were of the back- 

152 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER. 


153 


woods class. We soon began to see little groups of the country 1 people, in 
farm wagons, or on foot, making their way to Sunday school and church. 
Women, young girls, and children predominated, all dressed in their 
“Sunday-go-to-meeting” clothes. And how the women and girls cheered us, 
and waved their handkerchiefs! And didn’t we yell! It was self-evident 
that we were in “God’s Country” once more. These were the first demon¬ 
strations of that kind the old regiment had seen since the girls of Monticello 
Seminary, in February, 1862, lined the fences by the road side, and made 
similar manifestations of patriotism and good will. 

We arrived at Indianapolis about noon, there got off the cars and went 

in a body to a Soldiers’ Home close at hand, where we had a fine dinner. 

Thence back to the old train which thundered on the rest ot the day and 
that night, arriving at Springfield the following day, the 11th. Here we 
marched out to Camp Butler, near the city, and went into camp. 

And now another annoying delay occurred, this time being in the .mat¬ 

ter of our final payment. What the particular cause was I do not know; 
probably the paymasters were so busy right then that they couldn’t get 
around to us. The most of us, that is, of the old, original regiment, were 
here within sixty or seventy miles of our homes, and to be compelled to 
just lie around and wait here at Camp Butler was rather trying. But the 
boys were patient, and on the whole endured the situation with commend¬ 
able equanimity. “But the day it came at last”, and in the forenoon of 
September 27th, we fell in line by companies, and each company in its turn, 
marched to the paymaster’s tent, near regimental head-quarters. The roll 
of the company would be called in alphabetical order, and each man, as his 
name was called, would answer, and step forward to the paymaster’s table. 
That officer would lay on the table before the man the sum of money he 
was entitled to, and with it his certificate of discharge from the army, duly 
signed by the proper officials. The closing of the hand of the soldier over 
that piece of paper was the final act in the drama that ended his career as 
a soldier of the Civil War. Now he was a civilian, free to come and go as 
he listed. Farewell to the morning drum-beats, taps, roll-calls, drills, 
marches, battles, and all the other incidents and events of a soldier’s life. 

“The serried ranks, with flags displayed, 

The bugle’s thrilling blast, 

The charge, the thund’rous cannonade, 

The din and shout—were past.” 

The scattering-out process promptly began after we received our pay 
and discharges. I left Springfield early the following day, the 28th, on the 
Chicago, Alton, and St. Louis railroad, and went to Alton. Here I luckily 
found a teamster who was in the act of starting with his wagon and team to 
Jerseyville, and I rode with him to that place, arriving there about the mid¬ 
dle of the afternoon. I now hunted diligently to find some farm wagon that 
might be going to the vicinity of home, but found none. While so engaged, 
to my surprise and great delight, I met the old Chaplain, B. B. Hamilton. As 
heretofore stated, he had resigned during the previous March and had been 
at home for some months. His greeting to me was in his old-fashioned 
style. “Son of Jeremiah!” he exclaimed, as he extended his hand, “why 
comest thou down hither? And with whom hast thou left those few sheep 
in the wilderness?” I promptly informed him, in effect, that my coming 
was regular and legitimate, and that the “few sheep” of the old regiment 
were forever through and done with a shepherd. Hamilton did not reside 
in Jerseyville, but had just arrived there from his' home in Greene county, 
and, like me, was trying to find some farmer’s conveyance to take him about 
five miles into the country to the home of an old friend. I ascertained that 
his route, as far as he went, was the same as mine, so I proposed that we 
should strike out on foot. But he didn’t entertain the proposition with much 
enthusiasm. “Son of Jeremiah”, said he, “you will find that a walk of nine 


154 


THE STORY OF A COMMON SOLDIER, 


miles,” (the distance to my' father’s,) “will be a great weariness to the 
flesh on this warm day.” But I considered it a mere pleasure walk, and was 
determined to -go, so he finally concluded to do likewise. I left my valise in 
the care of 'a Jerseyville merchant, and with no baggage except my sword 
and belt, we proceeded to “hit the dirt.” I took off my coat, slung it over 
one shoulder, unsnapped my sword, with the scabbard, from the belt, and 
snouldered it also. Our walk was a pleasant and most agreeable one, as 
we had much to talk about that was interesting to both. When we ar¬ 
rived at the mouth of the lane that led to the house of the Chaplain’s friend, 
we shook hands and I bade him good-by, but fully expected to meet him 
many times later. But our paths in life diverged,—and I never saw him 
again. 

I arrived at the little village of Otterville about sundown. It was a 
very small place in 1865. There was just one store, (which also contained 
the post-office,) a blacksmith shop, the old “Stone school house,” a church, 
and perhaps a dozen or so private dwellings. There were no sidewalks, and 
I stalked up the middle of the one street the town afforded, with my sword 
poised on my shoulder, musket fashion, and feeling happy and proud. As 
I passed by the store, a man who was seated therein on die counter leaned 
forward and looked at me, but said nothing. A little further up the street 
a big dog sprang off the porch of a house, ran out to the little gate in front, 
and standing on his hind legs with his fore paws on the palings, barked at 
me loudly and persistently,—but I attracted no further attention. Many of 
the regiments that were mustered out soon after the close of the war re¬ 
ceived at home gorgeous receptions. They marched under triumphal 
arches, decorated with flags and garlands of flowers, while brass bands 
blared, and thousands of people cheered, and gave them a most enthusiastic 
“Welcome Home!” But the poor old 61st Illinois was among the late ar¬ 
rivals. The discharged soldiers were now numerous and common, and no 
longer a novelty. Personally I didn’t care, rather really preferred to come 
back home modestly and quietly, and without any “fuss and feathers” what¬ 
ever. Still, I would have felt better to have met at least one person as I 
passed through the little village, who would have given me a hearty hand¬ 
shake, and said he was glad to see me home, safe from the war. But it’s 
all right, for many such were met later. 

I now had only two miles to go, and was soon at the dear old boyhood 
home. My folks were expecting me, so they were not taken by surprise. 
There was no “scene” when we met, nor any effusive display, but we all had 
a feeling of profound contentment and satisfaction which was too deep to 
be expressed by mere words. 

When I returned home I found that the farm work my father was then 
engaged in was cutting up and shocking corn. So, the morning after my 
arrival, September 29t'h, I doffed my uniform of first lieutenant, put on some 
of father’s old clothes, armed myself with a corn knife, and proceeded to 
wage war on the standing corn. The feeling I had while engaged in this 
work, was “sort of queer.” It almost seemed, sometimes, as if I had been 
away only a day or two, and had just taken up the farm work where I had 
left off. 

Here this story win close. 

In conclusion I will say that in civil life people have been good to me. 
I have been honored with different positions of trust, importance, and re¬ 
sponsibility, and which I have reason to believe I filled to the satisfaction 
of the public. I am proud of the fact of having been deemed worthy to 
fill those different places. But, while that is so, I will further say, in absolute 
sincerity, that to me my humble career as a soldier in the 61st Illinois dur¬ 
ing the War for the Union is the record that I prize the highest of all, and 
is the proudest recollection of my life. 


THE END. 




























* . . 










. 




















, 

. 






i ' 

. 


f ' £ f'M I . 


' 1 ■ -■ 



- 














W * 


















MBM 





































■ 


> 


























































































. 










' 



. 


















■ 




1 














































































































































































































V • 


■ 


b> 






^ * 


























* ■ 








tv-* 


y - 



























m ' K. 






.-" < ■><>.*. S 




h 




































ft - 












. 














> f - - 












■• * 




*>-_'> * 






• -. - 






\ 















y 






>N ' - 






- M?: 
































. • ' - 
















« 


-C ^ 






■V 












-•v *V 



















9 


y* 






A 









. 






















































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































